her on the cheek, as the diplomat normally would, Vanderveen’s counterpart was careful to shake her hand instead. Because kissing, like all other aspects of free-breeder sex, was offi?cially frowned upon. “Christine,”
Ishimoto-Nine said warmly. “I was so very happy to hear of your safe return.”
Vanderveen said, “Thank you,” and wanted to talk more but was forced to move on. That was when she was introduced to Henry Hyde-Fifteen, the deputy secretary of state, as well as his boss, Carly Chambers-Ten, the secretary of state, both of whom were friendly if somewhat distant. Normally at least one of the Hegemony’s three Alpha Clones would have been present to receive a head of state, but none were. Was that an intentional snub? Or a manifestation of how busy they were? There was no way to know. The bar codes that all of the clones wore on their foreheads took some getting used to, as did the fact that when Vanderveen looked over at the band, the only factor that distinguished one musician from the next was their relative ages. But there wasn’t all that much time for refl?ection as the receiving line spit her out and the offi?cer in charge of Nankool’s security detail herded the VIPs toward a convoy of six-wheeled limos, each of which fl?ew a small Confederacy fl?ag from whip-style antennae. The legionnaire didn’t look the least bit like Santana but had a similar manner and served to remind the diplomat of the leave the two of them had shared on Earth. Where was he, she wondered? Back on Adobe? Or on his way to some other hellhole? It wasn’t easy maintaining a relationship when both of them were on the move and a war was under way.
Orders were given, doors slammed, and the convoy departed. Having found herself in a car with three administrative assistants, Vanderveen took advantage of her new rank and maintained a lordly silence. Bio bods mounted on Trooper IIs jogged alongside the vehicles, weapons at the ready, as the motorcade left the spaceport and entered the city beyond. The metroplex was a study in symmetry. Grid-style streets met each other at right angles, box-shaped buildings stood in orderly rows, and a cookie-cutter park occupied every sixth block.
But, having read the fi?fty-page intelligence summary that Madam Xanith’s people had prepared for Nankool and his staff, Vanderveen knew that the city was actually less orderly than it appeared. Tensions were seething just below the surface—including the discontent being voiced by a nascent opposition party. Young people, for the most part, some of whom were rumored to be “naturals,” and hoped to overthrow the hereditary dictatorship in favor of a democracy. The opposition consisted of social conservatives and secret death squads that might or might not include members of the police.
As if summoned by her thoughts, two clone policemen, both riding gyro-stabilized unicycles, pulled even with Vanderveen’s limo. Both wore white helmets equipped with face shields, black body armor, and combat boots. One of the clones looked straight at the diplomat, and she felt a chill run down her spine, as he nodded and accelerated away. The motorcade turned onto a tree-lined boulevard shortly after that. Ranks of citizens lined both sides of the street. They had been ordered to come out and welcome Nankool to Alpha-001 whether they wanted to or not. And because the Hegemony’s citizens had been prevented from intermarrying, and reproducing in what Vanderveen considered to be the normal manner, they stood in the racial groupings that coincided with their professions. Computer technicians here, dental assistants there, and so forth all according to a plan handed down from on high. What are they thinking? the diplomat wondered, as the black, brown, and white faces slid by. Do they favor an alliance with us? Would they prefer to go it alone? There was no way to tell because, in keeping with the orderly nature of clone society, citizens weren’t allowed to cheer, hurl insults, or pepper the motorcade with rotten fruit. All the clones could do was wait for the foreign dignitaries to roll past, then return to their jobs. By peering past the driver, Vanderveen could see the low, boxlike structure that lay ahead. It was topped with a dome and soon proved to be the motorcade’s destination as the lead vehicle swept around a circular driveway and paused under a formal portico, where a clutch of ominous T-2s stood waiting. Many of the cyborgs wore the machine equivalent of tattoos—some of which were quite fanciful. It took a while for the more senior offi?cials to exit their cars, but Vanderveen’s opportunity eventually came, and the diplomat followed a gaggle of talkative undersecretaries into the capitol building. A formal reception area led to a short fl?ight of stairs and the corridor beyond. Heels clicked on stone, and voices echoed between barren walls, as a guide led the presidential party past a checkpoint and into the Chamber of Governmental Process.
It was a large circular room with a highly polished white fl?oor. Triangles of shiny black marble pointed in toward the center of the space, where a beautiful green-and-blue double helix served as both pillar and sculpture. Vanderveen knew the column was intended to represent a single molecule of a chemical substance called deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA, which is the basic building block of all living organisms. The symbol had religious as well as scientifi?c signifi?cance for the clones.
The sculpture shimmered as bars of light representing the four chemical compounds called bases fl?oated upwards and disappeared into the ceiling. A circular table fronted the column, and a man rose to greet them. The Alpha Clone went by the name Antonio Seven. His hair had once been black, and shiny with pomade, but that was long ago. Now it was white, and what remained of once-thick curls circled the ruler’s head like a silver crown. What hadn’t changed were the almost military manner in which he held his body, the Spartan black tunic that he favored, and the matching pantaloon-style pants. His bare feet made a slapping sound as he came forward to embrace Nankool. “Greetings old friend!” the Alpha Clone said warmly. “I’m afraid that Marcus is too sick to join us, and Pietro sends his apologies. The demands of government require his presence elsewhere.”
That was a lie, since Pietro rarely did much of anything anymore, preferring to sit on his veranda and paint. But Antonio saw no reason to disclose that, both because it would have been disloyal to do so, and because it suited his purposes to conceal the extent to which he ran the government. The next forty-fi?ve minutes or so were spent making introductions, and consuming a seemingly endless procession of appetizers, as both sides began to jockey for position. This was a rather chaotic process in which Vanderveen found herself going one-on-one with a clone general. The topic of conversation was the pros and cons of Ramanthian assault rifl?es, a subject about which the military man was surprised to learn the young woman was quite knowledgeable.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to all but those gathered around Nankool and Antonio, a messenger arrived. After scanning the piece of paper that had been handed to him the Alpha Clone frowned. Nankool could sense that something important was in the offi?ng and was paying close attention when the other man opened his mouth to speak. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” Antonio said gravely. “But I just received word that Gamma-014 has been attacked by the Ramanthian Empire. And, based on preliminary reports, it appears the planet has fallen.”
Gasps of surprise were heard, along with expressions of incredulity, as everyone sought to absorb the terrible news. Except that Nankool, who should have been sad, felt wildly jubilant instead. Because here it was! A heaven- sent opportunity to secure the alliance he so desperately needed!
But none of that was visible on the politician’s face as he offered his condolences. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” the head of state said soberly. “And I’m sure I speak for the entire Confederacy when I say that we stand ready to fi?ght side by side with people of the Hegemony to stop Ramanthian aggression.”
Vanderveen, who was close enough to hear, was impressed by the way the chief executive had been able not only to seize upon the unexpected opportunity but to do so in such a graceful manner. Meanwhile Antonio, who was increasingly burdened by his age, felt an impending sense of doom. Because not only was there the fate of Gamma014 to consider but it was likely that troublemakers within the Hegemony would use the Ramanthian attack to advance their demands for change. But it would have been a mistake to say any of those things out loud, or to accept Nankool’s offer of assistance without giving such an alliance careful thought, so Antonio sought to push the matter off. “Thank you for your condolences,” the Alpha Clone said feelingly. “We appreciate your kind thoughts. Now, if you will excuse us, my staff and I have work to do. I’m sure you understand.”
