When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  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.

  12.

  Every mile is two in the winter.

  —George Herbert

  Jacula Prudentum

  Standard year 1651

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  The snow had stopped, the clouds had blown away, and the sun was out. So as the fl?y-form circled Marine Firebase (MF-356), Captain Antonio Santana and Lieutenant Mitch Millar had an excellent view of the hilltop fortifi?cation below. However, because Millar was a cyborg, and therefore capable of plugging in to the fl?y-form’s circuitry, the recon ball could enjoy what amounted to a 360-degree sensaround, while the bio bod was left to peer out the window next to him.

  Still, Santana could see that MF-356 was well positioned to put fi?re on the highway, and serve as a staging point for local area patrols. And, should the bugs attempt to take it, the hill would be a tough nut to crack. Although the fi?rebase’s considerable weaponry had been useless in the face of Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666’s act of cold-blooded treachery. An armed invasion that cost the lives of twentythree marines and resulted in the loss of two ton’s worth of supplies. And now, having narrowly escaped arrest some fi?fty hours earlier, the renegade would be even more wary than before. And that would make him diffi?cult to catch. Especially since the clone was an expert at cold-weather survival techniques and familiar with the local terrain. But, as the fl?y-form came in to hover above the hilltop landing platform, Santana thought he had a fi?x on the renegade’s critical weakness. Or strength, depending on how one chose to look at it. And that was Colonel Six’s determination to close with the enemy and kill as many of them as he could. That desire, that determination, would make the fugitive somewhat predictable. Or so Santana hoped. There was a palpable thud as the fl?y-form put down. Servos whined softly as Millar extruded two skeletal tool aims, which the cyborg used to release the tie-downs that secured his sphere-shaped body to the seat. The cyborg’s war form incorporated four high-res vid cams, a variety of weaponry, and the capacity to fl?y long distances at low altitudes—which was one of the primary reasons why Santana had requested one of the much-sought-after scouts. While no one could beat Fareye on the ground, and recon drones had their uses, nothing could surpass a fl?ying brain when it came to collecting and distributing real-time battlefi?eld intelligence. Having freed himself from the tie-downs, Millar hovered in midair, as Santana got up and made his way forward. In spite of whatever special capabilities the cyborg might have, he was a lieutenant and the bio bod was a captain.

  Even though the sun was out, it lacked any real punch, and the air outside the aircraft’s cabin was bitterly cold. So cold that the legionnaire could feel the moisture freeze inside his nose as he descended the fold-down stairs and snapped to attention. He held the salute until a short, stern-looking lieutenant colonel saw fi?t to return it. “I’m Captain Antonio Santana, sir . . . And this is Lieutenant Mitch Millar. We’re both with the 2nd Battalion, 1st REC.” The cyborg had exited the fl?y-form by that time—and was hovering four feet above the landing platform.

  “Welcome to Firebase 356,” the marine offi?cer said gruffl?y.

  “My name’s Suki, Lieutenant Colonel Suki, and we were told to expect you. Tell me something, Captain. . . . Why would a Legion offi?cer show up wearing navy cold-weather gear?”

  “Because we had the foresight to steal all the cold-weather gear we could lay our hands on, sir,” Santana answered truthfully. “And it belonged to the navy.”

  When Suki laughed, the sound came out as a loud guffaw.

  “You report to General Kobbi. . . . Is that right?”

  Santana nodded. “Through Colonel Quinlan . . . Yes, sir.”

  “Kobbi’s a good man,” Suki said. “So good he could have been a marine! So you’re the offi?cer they selected to go after Colonel Six.”

  “Sir, yes sir,” Santana said evenly.

  “Well, do me a favor,” Suki growled. “Once you fi?nd the bastard, shoot him! Because if you bring him back, there will be a court-martial, and who knows what would come out of that. Especially once the politicians get wind of it.”

  “You’re not the fi?rst person to make that suggestion,”

  Santana answered noncommittally.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Suki replied. “Come on. . . . Let’s get in out of the cold.”

  Five minutes later, the legionnaires were in the fi?rebase’s heavily sandbagged command bunker, which though warmer than the air outside, was still too cold for comfort, despite the combined efforts of chemical stoves that sat crouched in opposite corners. One plastic-draped wall was taken up with com equipment, while a second was obscured by a bank of video screens, on which helmet-cam video from foot patrol

  “Joker-Four” was currently displayed. There was also a rack of assault weapons, a two-burner fi?eld stove with two pots sitting on top of it, and a long, narrow worktable, which consisted of two cargo mods, topped by a sheet of locally manufactured plywood. Positioned on that were four milspec computers—two of which were currently being used by marine noncoms. “Okay,” Suki said, as the two bio bods took their places on upended ammo crates. “I’m going to assume you did your homework—and read the reports we sent in. So, since you know what we know, why the visit?”

  It was a somewhat contentious question. But because the legionnaire knew how frustrating it was to play patty-cake with fact fi?nders, touring politicians, and other forms of lowlife REMF scum, he wasn’t offended. “Don’t worry, sir. . . . The lieutenant and I didn’t come all this way to participate in a cold-weather circle jerk. We need information that wasn’t available at the regimental level.”

  That was news to Millar, who knew that junior offi?cers were meant to be seen and not heard. That was why the cyborg continued to hover off to one side, half-hidden in the shadows. “Okay,” Suki responded. “What are you after?

  We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

  “Colonel Six came here to steal supplies,” Santana began.

  “That much seems clear. Based on the reports that Captain Arvo Smith fi?led, the decision to take hostages was clearly made on the fl?y. Plus, the Seebos had about fi?fty civilians on call, which further substantiates that premise. But,” Santana
continued, “according to what I read, Colonel Six and his men were rather choosy about what they took. A list of the stolen items was included in the report submitted by Captain Smith. What wasn’t available at the regimental level, was a list of what Colonel Six could have taken, but didn’t. If we compare the two lists, we should be able to get a pretty good idea of what the clone bastard plans to do next.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Suki said admiringly. “You’re smarter than you look! Sergeant Diker! You’ve been listening in—and don’t pretend you weren’t. Pull up a list of the supplies that were on hand the day the clones arrived—and put that side by side with what they actually took.”

  A corporal brought the offi?cers mugs of hot caf while Diker summoned the data Santana had requested, formatted the results, and sent the product to a printer. Millar plucked his copy right out of midair by tapping into the low-power wireless network.

  With hard copy in hand, Santana began a systematic review of both lists. Most of the stolen items were what any guerrilla fi?ghter would want, including food, ammo, and com gear. One piece of which included the locator beacon that had been used to track him down a couple of days earlier. Of course, other things had been stolen as well—including a signifi?cant quantity of medical supplies.

  But of more interest were ten Shoulder-Launched Multipurpose Assault Weapons (SMAW), and sixty 83mm HighExplosive Dual-Purpose (HEDP) Rockets, which was twice, if not three times, the number of SMAWs a company of Seebos would normally carry. The question was why? Because the weapons were available? Or to equip the guerrilla fi?ghters for a specifi?c mission?