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 fi?red his submachine gun. The bullet-riddled robot fell not four feet from the mortar and burst into fl?ames. “Fire!” Six shouted into his lip mike. “Let the ugly free-breeding bastards have it!”
And fi?re 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 rifl?es. Which, unlike the .50caliber weapons preferred by the Legion, fi?red 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 fi?re, 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 fi?ght. All of that was clear to see because, for some inexplicable reason, the lights were still on!
Then the executions began. The Ramanthian offi?cer was armed with a sword. And given the volume of incoming fi?re, 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 offi?cer!” 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 rifl?es, shot across the intervening space, and blew the bug’s head off. Light rippled along the length of blade as the bloodied sword fl?ew into the air, fl?ipped end over end, and landed point down.
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
