Zimmer was silent for a moment. Then, having come to some sort of conclusion, she gave a single nod. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. . . . Take it easy on him.” And with that she left. Nankool had always been a tower of strength, but never more than during the months the two of them had been held in the Ramanthian POW camp, and to see someone like Zimmer so obviously concerned about Nankool’s emotional wellbeing came as a shock. Vanderveen knocked on the door, heard a nearly inaudible “Come in,” and palmed the access plate. The barrier whispered softly as it slid out of the way.
As Vanderveen entered Nankool sat with his back to the semidarkened room. He was staring out the only window at the angular cityscape beyond. “The bugs destroyed most of Chicago,” Nankool said fl?atly. “And all of Paris, Rio, and Sydney. All because of my stupidity. Gamma-014 was the bait, Christine. And I took it. Hook, line, and sinker. Now we’re bogged down in the Clone Hegemony, fi?ghting on some slush ball, while the bugs rape Earth. People are fi?ghting back though, killing as many chits as they can, waiting for a fl?eet that doesn’t exist. That can’t exist, unless I break my word, and pull our forces out of clone-held space. And that’s what Zimmer thinks I should do. Hell, that’s what most of my staff thinks I should do. What about you Christine? What do you think?”
Vanderveen thought about her mother, and wanted to ask about San Francisco, but held the question back as Nankool turned to face her. Vanderveen was shocked by what she saw. Though once overweight, Nankool had shed at least thirty pounds during the months spent in captivity. But the slimmed-down version was nothing compared with the way he looked now. The president’s eyes stared out at Vanderveen from blue-black caverns. His nose was like a blade that divided his gaunt face into halves as a clawlike hand came up to rub a furrowed brow. “I think you made the right decision,” Vanderveen said, desperately hoping that she was right. “And based on what I learned over the last few days, there’s a very real chance that you could cement something better than an alliance with the Hegemony. Because if certain things play out the way I expect them to, and if we take appropriate steps, it might be possible to incorporate the Hegemony into the Confederacy. Which would result in full rather than qualifi?ed military cooperation. And that could turn things around! Or at least level the playing fi?eld.”
Nankool’s cadaverous face seemed to brighten slightly.
“Really?” he inquired hopefully. “I could use some good news. . . . Tell me more.”
So Vanderveen told Nankool about Alan, Mary, and the free breeders who lived under the city. Then she told him about the revolution, what it could mean, and how the Confederacy could take advantage of it. But as she spoke, the diplomat saw the hope disappear from Nankool’s eyes and a frown appear. So as her presentation came to its conclusion, Vanderveen already knew what the president’s decision would be, even if she didn’t know why.
“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 fi?nd out about our meddling are high . . . Which means we could lose whatever benefi?ts 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 fi?nger 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 diffi?cult to see.
The security people were waiting for Vanderveen when she left Nankool’s makeshift offi?ce. 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 fi?nd 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
