The woman began to sob, and might have remained right where she was, had two of her companions not taken the miner between them and half carried her away.
“We have some explosives,” the administrator said helpfully. She was determined, and Six liked that.
“Good,” the Seebo replied. “That means we can save what we have. Perhaps one of your people would show us where to place them?”
The process of placing the charges, and pulling the civilians out of Strat’s Deep, took the better part of an hour, rather than the thirty minutes that Six had been hoping for. But it went smoothly, and once both the townspeople and the Seebos were assembled on the ledge above town, it was safe to trigger the charges. A series of muffl?ed thuds was heard, and the onlookers felt the explosions through the soles of their boots, as a rockslide clattered down a neighboring slope. “All right,” Colonel Six said grimly. “The bugs will come looking for us tomorrow. Let’s fi?nd a place to hide.” And with that, 150 people vanished into the night. Seven hours later, when the Ramanthians assigned to hold Strat’s Deep failed to check in as they were supposed to, and attempts to contact them failed, a quick-reaction force was dispatched. It wasn’t possible to assess the amount of damage infl?icted on the mine shafts from the air. But there was no mistaking the fact that the railroad tracks had been severed—and the processing plant had been reduced to a pile of smoking rubble.
And when members of the elite Hammer regiment hit the ground, the town was empty except for the row of twentysix Ramanthian bodies laid out in front of the admin building, and the large numbers scrawled across the facade. The paint was red, the numerals were “666,” and none of the troopers knew what they meant.
A report was written, approved, and passed up through the chain of command. And, when it appeared on Okoto’s computer screen, the general actually read it, a fact that would have amazed the lowly fi?le leader who authored it. The numbers “666” held no particular meaning for Okoto, but the offi?cer was a student of human warfare, and widely read. Which is why he went looking for a certain fi?le, brought it on-screen, and scanned for the passage he had in mind. It read:
“Many people think it is impossible for guerrillas to exist for long in the enemy’s rear. Such a belief reveals lack of comprehension of the relationship that should exist between the people and the troops. The farmer may be likened to water and the latter to the fi?sh who inhabit it.”
The text had been authored by a man named Mao TseTung. And he had been dead for a long, long time. But Okoto could tell that someone else was familiar with the revolutionary’s writings as well. Someone who was very, very dangerous. PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
President Marcott Nankool and his staff were quartered in the equivalent of a large if not especially posh hotel, which the Hegemony’s State Department ran for both the convenience of visiting dignitaries and its own intelligence service. The entire building was bugged, including conference rooms like the one that the visitors had been forced to meet in, which was why all of them were shooting the breeze, catching up on administrative tasks via their data pads, or simply staring into space as a team of four military technicians worked to sanitize the room. No doubt the clones would disapprove of the cleansing, but they couldn’t very well complain about it without admitting that they had been spying on their guests.
The conference room was a long, rectangular space that had no architectural interest whatsoever, except for the gigantic fl?oor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the south wall and allowed Christine Vanderveen to look out over an angular cityscape. Thanks to a very effective weather-management system, it rarely rained during the day. That meant the founder’s architects had been able to count on generous amounts of natural light and calculate the way that shadows would caress their buildings before constructing them—all of which was unique to clone society insofar as Vanderveen knew. Having located all the audio pickups, neutralized the photosensitive wall paint, and eradicated the tiny pinhead-sized robo cams that had been roaming the room, a harried-looking naval tech approached Legion General and Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly III. Although Vanderveen didn’t know the offi?cer well, she had seen him on many occasions over the years, and was surprised to see how much older he looked. He still had his mother’s gray eyes and his father’s athletic body. But his hair was shot with streaks of white, lines were etched into his face, and his skin was very pale, like someone who rarely gets any sun. “The room is clean, General,” the tech told him.
“But we can’t guarantee that it will stay that way for more than an hour or so. The clones are sure to launch some sort of counterattack through the ventilation system.”
Booly nodded. “That should be suffi?cient. Thanks for all the hard work.”
The tech didn’t receive many “thank-yous,” especially from senior offi?cers, and was clearly pleased as he returned to the back of the room. Vanderveen watched the general walk over and say a few words to Nankool. Here we go, the diplomat thought to herself, as the president nodded. All of the small talk quickly came to an end as Nankool stood.
“Okay, everybody,” the chief executive said, as he eyed the people assembled before him. “We have a counter from the Hegemony—so let’s get to it. There’s some good news and some bad news.”
The announcement produced a chorus of groans, which Nankool acknowledged with a good-natured grin. “I’ll give you the good news fi?rst. Alpha Clone Antonio-Seven has agreed to a military alliance with the Confederacy. Beginning with a joint task force to liberate Gamma-014.”
Vanderveen joined the rest of the staff in a loud cheer. But Booly, who harbored serious misgivings about the new alliance, was noticeably silent. “And the bad news?” the offi?cer inquired cynically, as the noise died away. “How bad is bad?”
It was the moment that Nankool had been dreading. There was nothing he could do but tell the truth. “Given that Gamma-014 is one of their planets, and that roughly sixty percent of the joint task force will consist of clone troops, the Hegemony wants to put one of their generals in overall command.”
Booly looked down at the fl?oor as if to momentarily hide his expression before bringing his eyes back up. Everyone in the room knew that the joint chiefs opposed such an arrangement, and for some very good reasons. Although the Hegemony’s soldiers were good, the Seebos had little if any experience where joint operations were concerned. That, combined with a general air of superiority, and the very real possibility that clone offi?cers would show favoritism toward their own kind, meant things could and probably would go wrong—the kinds of things that could cause a whole lot of casualties for the Confederacy. So, even though Booly’s voice was neutral, there was no question as to how the general felt. “And your position, Mr. President?”
Booly had been loyal to Nankool, very loyal, and was a bona fi?de war hero to boot. Not to mention the fact that his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, was the billionaire president of the star-spanning company that her uncle Sergi Chien-Chu had founded, and was therefore quite infl?uential. So the politician wanted to make the general happy. But the alliance was important, critically important, even if the price was high. So there was nothing Nankool could do but look Booly in the eye and say what he believed. “I wish it were otherwise, General, but we need this alliance, and I believe we should agree to it. I promise you that after we take Gamma-014, the joint chiefs will be in control of the campaigns that follow.”
A lump had formed in the back of Booly’s throat, but he managed to swallow it. The president’s mind was made up, that was clear, and given the extent of his wartime powers, Nankool had the authority to create such alliances when necessary. The Senate would have to ratify the agreement, but that would take months, and chances were that the battle for Gamma-014 would be over by the time they got around to it. For better or for worse. “Sir, yes sir,” Booly said dutifully. “Has a general been chosen?”