The diplomat blinked her eyes experimentally, tried to sit, and felt a sharp pain lance through her head. “I feel terrible,” the diplomat answered honestly. “Where am I? And why am I here?”
“You’re in a safe place,” the man said evasively. “As to why, well, that’s simple. . . . We want to talk to you.”
The diplomat should have been frightened. But somehow, for reasons she couldn’t put a fi?nger on, she wasn’t. “Next time just call and make an appointment,” Vanderveen said thickly. “I promise to clear my calendar.”
The man laughed as a young woman appeared at his side. She had black hair, bangs that functioned to conceal the bar code on her forehead, and was very pretty. She offered a white pill with one hand—and a cup of water with the other. “It’s a pain pill,” the woman explained. “For your headache.”
Vanderveen looked from the pill over to the man. “It’s safe,” he assured her. “Had we meant to do you harm, we would have done so by now.”
That made sense, so the diplomat took the pill, and chased it with two gulps of water. “Thank you,” she said. “Sort of. Who are you people anyway?”
“My birth name is Trotski-Four—but my free name is Alan,” the man answered.
“And my birth name is Yee-Seven, but you can call me Mary,” the woman added.
Vanderveen nodded, forced herself to sit up, and was pleased to discover that the pain was starting to abate. Now, being able to see more, she realized she was in some sort of utility room. Shelving occupied most of one wall, a utility sink stood against another, a robo janitor sat in a corner. The machine’s green ready-light eyed them unblinkingly. “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” the diplomat said sourly. “I’m being held in the world headquarters of the Freedom Now party.”
Mary frowned, but Alan laughed. “Very good! That isn’t what we call ourselves, but that’s our goal, and we need your help.”
“Sorry,” Vanderveen replied, “but you put the snatch on the wrong person. I’m a lowly FSO-2, and what you want is a 1, or an assistant secretary of state.”
“We tried to establish contact with Secretary Yatsu, but either the secret police were able to block our communication, or she chose to ignore our message.”
“Not to mention the fact that she has bodyguards,” Mary put in. “That’s why we settled on you.”
“That’s right,” Alan said enthusiastically. “You can carry a message for us!”
“Gee, thanks,” Vanderveen responded dryly. “I’m honored. What sort of message?”
There was something about the intensity of Alan’s expression, and his obvious sincerity, that Vanderveen found appealing as the clone paced back and forth. “Our people live under what amounts to a hereditary dictatorship,” the clone said disparagingly. “And they want a say in government.”
“Including the right to have free-breeder sex and babies,”
Mary said fi?rmly.
“That’s already taking place,” Alan added matter-offactly. “There was a time when ninety-eight percent of all babies were sterilized, but that number continues to fall, as people bribe med techs to skip the procedure, in hopes that future generations can reproduce normally. In the meantime many of those who can are having babies. In spite of the fact that the death squads track some of them down.”
Vanderveen’s eyebrows rose. “Death squads?”
“Yes,” Mary said emphatically. “Most of the police are members of the Romo line, and primarily interested in keeping the peace, but about ten percent of them are Nerovs. And they are completely ruthless. Some say they take their orders from the Alphas—others claim they kill on their own. It makes very little difference,” she fi?nished soberly. “Dead is dead.”
Vanderveen looked from the woman, who stood with arms folded, back to Alan. The revolutionary had stopped pacing by then and was staring at her with his electric green eyes. “I’m no expert on your culture,” the diplomat said carefully. “But why would the founder and her advisors authorize a line like the Nerovs?”
The male clone answered so quickly it was as if he’d been waiting for the question. “Because Dr. Hosokowa was interested in creating the perfect society,” he explained. “Not perfect people, because that would be impossible. So countervailing forces were put into play. That’s why she commissioned my line, to make sure someone would stir things up, and thereby keep the Alpha Clones on their toes. And Mary’s line, to provide the two percent of the male population that hadn’t been sterilized with a sexual outlet, but one that wouldn’t produce children.”
“Couldn’t produce children,” the woman said sadly, as a tear trickled down her cheek. “Even though the fi?rst Yee was chosen because she was sexually attractive.”
“All so the great society could survive,” Alan concluded.
“Which, when you think about it, was Hosokowa’s child.”
“So you’re doing what you were created to do,” Vanderveen mused out loud. “Doesn’t that mean your efforts are doomed to failure? Because other lines are dedicated to canceling you out?”
“Not this time,” Alan said grimly. “There’s too much unhappiness. The people are ready to rise up and take control of what is rightfully theirs!”
Vanderveen had been skeptical at fi?rst. But the more the diplomat listened, the more she began to believe that a revolution was possible. And with that belief came certain questions. Important questions that could have a bearing on the war with the Ramanthians. If the clones were to rise up, and overthrow the existing government, how would that affect the new alliance? Because if that came apart, Nankool’s strategy would crumble, and the Confederacy would teeter on the edge of defeat. “You mentioned a message,” the diplomat said cautiously. “What did you have in mind?”
“Go to President Nankool,” Alan instructed. “Tell him that the revolution is about to begin, and when it takes place, there will be an opportunity. By recognizing the new government quickly, and allowing it to join the Confederacy without delay, he will be in a position to replace the existing alliance with something far more valuable: a member state.”
It was a stunning opportunity, or would be if the population actually rose up, but before Vanderveen could respond to the offer the door slammed open and Fisk-Three appeared. He was dressed in homemade body armor—and armed with a machine pistol. “The Nerovs are here,” the clone said matterof-factly. “Take her out through the sewers. . . . We’ll hold them off for as long as we can.”
Suddenly, Alan had one of Vanderveen’s arms, and Mary had the other, as they hustled the diplomat out of the storeroom and down a hall. Off in the distance the muted rattle of automatic fi?re could be heard, as the secret police attempted to search the building, and the Fisks sought to delay them. Then Vanderveen was propelled through a doorway, down a fl?ight of metal stairs, and into a room fi?lled with what appeared to be the building’s heating and cooling equipment. Machines rumbled, whined, and purred as the threesome jogged between them. The fl?oor-mounted access hatch was made out of steel, and protected by a three-sided tubular railing and a length of bright yellow chain. The sign that dangled from it read, “Danger! Authorized personnel only!” But that didn’t stop Alan from unhooking the chain—and motioning for the women to enter the restricted area. Mary turned the wheel mounted on top of the hatch, pulled the dome-shaped closure upwards, and motioned with her free hand. “Down the ladder! Quick before the Nerovs come!”