caused a knot to form in her stomach, but in no way sapped her resolve, as Vanderveen went to the table where the comset was waiting.
The nine-digit number had been memorized at Alan’s urging, and for reasons she hadn’t been entirely sure of at the time, withheld from the debriefers. But it was safe, or so the Fisks claimed, so long as Vanderveen followed their instructions: Dial the number, provide a time, and hang up. That was the procedure. So Vanderveen entered the correct sequence of numbers into the keypad and waited for someone or something to answer. The device at the other end rang three times before a synthesized voice came on the line. The little video screen was blank. “Leave your message at the tone,” the voice said, and a beep followed. Vanderveen said, “Ten this morning,” and broke the connection. It was 8:37—and there was a lot to do. Not the least of which was to write a carefully worded memo to the assistant secretary of state in which Vanderveen put forth her arguments in favor of a relationship with the free-breeder underground and made clear her intention to act as an unoffi?cial liaison between the revolutionaries and the Confederacy. Then, with that chore out of the way, it was time to tend to other more routine matters. Like cramming as many necessities as possible into her briefcase, which she should be able to carry out of the hotel without generating any suspicion. Then, having sealed the memo in an envelope that she intended to slip under the secretary’s door, Vanderveen left her room.
The park, located four blocks from Vanderveen’s hotel, was a popular place for retirees to congregate during the day. Especially given the fact that the dormitories that the clones lived in were rather bleak. That was why the Fisks had gone to considerable lengths to disguise themselves as harmless Hornbys, and were seated around a concrete table playing chess, when the free-breeder female entered the park, took a long look around, and sat on a bench. There were cameras in the park, lots of them, and the clock was running. But, unlike the old days when the Fisks had been forced to work alone, they had help now. Based on a signal from a Fisk, one of the Hornbys began to argue with an Ortov, and it wasn’t long before fi?sts fl?ew. That caused all of the security cameras to swivel toward the disturbance. And they were still focused on the fi?ght when the police arrived. The confl?ict came to an end at that point, but when the Romos went looking for the free breeder who had been spotted just prior to the fi?ght, the woman was gone. And none of the retirees remembered seeing her. FSO-2 Christine Vanderveen, daughter of Charles and Margaret Vanderveen, confi?dante to President Nankool, and the recipient of numerous awards for distinguished service to the Confederacy, had gone AWOL.
9
The reason we have always advocated a policy of luring the enemy to penetrate deeply is because it is the most effective tactic against a strong opponent.
On Protracted War
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
It was cold. The temperature had fallen thirty degrees during the last twelve hours, a persistent ten-mile-per- hour wind was blowing down through the long mountain pass, and a curtain of snow limited visibility to half a mile. Which would have been bad enough for troops who had proper gear. But unlike the 1st REC, most of the legionnaires, marines, and Seebos who had been sent up into the mountains were dressed in multiple layers of summer clothing. Because instead of winning the battle for Gamma-014 in a matter of weeks, as General-453 had predicted they would, the allies were bogged down. Rather than leapfrog ahead, and engage the main body of General Akoto’s forces before they could retreat into the At-Sak Mountains, the clone general insisted that isolated pockets of Ramanthians be eradicated fi?rst. An error made worse by the fact that as the weather continued to deteriorate, the allies soon lost one of the few advantages they had, which was air superiority. That was in spite of General Bill Booly’s repeated attempts to offer Four-fi?ftythree counsel. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the knowledge that Earth was under attack ate at everyone’s morale as Santana and Alpha Company followed other allied units up the long, twisting road that led to Tow-Tok Pass. Because even though people like Santana had no family there, all of them had friends on the planet, and still felt a special affection for Earth even if they had been born elsewhere. For his part, Santana knew that Margaret Vanderveen was probably on her own, and he was worried about her. And Christine would be frantic—but unable to help. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden shriek of an incoming artillery round, followed by an earthshaking carump, as a column of frozen soil was lifted high into the air two hundred yards ahead. And there, suspended within the geyser, the cavalry offi?cer could see darker forms that might have been bodies. Clone civilians, most likely, who until moments before, had been trudging along at the tail end of a CVA labor battalion. Santana yelled, “Incoming!” over the company push, but knew it was unnecessary, as more Ramanthian shells fell up ahead. Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo ordered the fi?rst platoon off the right side of the highway—even as Second Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin led the second platoon to the left. It was better than continuing to march right up the center of the two-lane road, but still far from safe. Because even though the Ramanthian gunners couldn’t actually see that section of road from their positions high in the mountains, they had coordinates for every inch of the highway. That, combined with targeting data fed to them by computercontrolled drones, allowed the aliens to lay down effective fi?re along both margins of the crowded road— the only place to go since cliffs, steep slopes, and carefully laid minefi?elds kept the allies hemmed in. That’s why Route 1
was frequently referred to as “blood alley.” It was a long ribbon of wreck-strewn duracrete, every mile of which had to be paid for with lives, as the allies were sucked into Akoto’s trap.
The chits weren’t free to fi?re on their pursuers with total impunity, however. Because even though the weather was keeping most of the allied air force on the ground, there were other ways for the allies to strike back. This was where the company’s quads came in. Both of the fi?fty-ton monsters opened fi?re at once. Blue energy bolts stuttered up into the snow-laced sky as onboard computers tracked the incoming shells and soon started to intercept them. The sound of explosions echoed back and forth between the surrounding mountain peaks as the incoming weapons were detonated high in the air. Which was good—but not good enough. Because some shells managed to get through, and the quads couldn’t fi?re indefi?nitely.
“This is Alpha Six to Alpha One-Four, and Bravo OneFour,” Santana said, as Sergeant Omi Decker carried the offi?cer off the ice-encrusted pavement and into an area of wellchurned snow. The theory being that any piece of ground that had already been stepped on was probably free of mines. “How
’bout it?” Santana demanded. “Have you got a fi?x on the bastards? Over.”
“Yes, sir,” Private Simy Xiong replied confi?dently. “Stand by for outgoing. Over.”
Having tracked the incoming rounds back to their source—the quads were ready to strike at the Ramanthian artillery battery responsible for the bombardment. Missiles roared off rails, vanished into the swirling snow, and sought the enemy. “Got ’em!” Private Ivan Lupo exclaimed triumphantly, as a series of overlapping explosions was heard, and thunder rolled down the valley. “You can scratch one bug battery. Over.”
