Decisive though the alien victory was, there were holdouts. One was a clone offi?cer named Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666, who, like all of the soldiers both above and below him, was a genetic replica of a dead hero who was said to have embodied all of the military virtues. Which was why the original Seebo had been chosen by founder Carolyn Hosokowa to “father” an entire army.
This approach, when replicated across all professions, was intended to produce ideal citizens, each playing his or her part in a nearly perfect society. But even though their genes were identical, each clone had different experiences, which made them individuals. Some of whom, like the increasing number of people who favored “free breeding,” threatened to bring the carefully designed social structure crashing down around them. For there was no place for so-called accidental people in a strictly hereditary society. Or that’s the way Colonel Six and other social conservatives saw it. Of course all such concerns were placed on the back burner when the Ramanthians attacked. Once it became clear that the planet’s orbital defenses had been crushed, and the Ramanthians were landing in force, “Colonel Six,” as most people called him, took immediate action. The offi?cer was in charge of the army’s Cold Weather Survival school located at the foot of a rugged mountain range. It was a military facility that had been used to train thousands of troops over the years but was currently on hiatus until the really cold weather set in. That meant only forty-six instructors and support personnel were present. That was the bad news. The good news was that all the Seebos under the colonel’s command were battle-hardened veterans who knew how to survive in a wintry environment and fi?ght a guerrilla-style war, which was what the clone offi?cer fully intended to do.
And, thanks to the fact that Six was in charge of a facility that was both remote and intentionally primitive, the bugs left the Spartan base alone as the Seebos took all of the supplies they could carry, loaded them onto genetically engineered pack animals, and disappeared into the mountains. It was a seemingly meaningless event in the grand scheme of things, but one that would cost the Ramanthians dearly over the days and weeks to come. For there was only one thing more dangerous than winter on Gamma-014, and that was Colonel Six.
PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
A signifi?cant portion of the spaceport had been sealed off from regular traffi?c, fl?ags snapped in a stiff breeze, and rows of Jonathan Alan Seebos stood at attention as the spotless shuttle settled onto its skids. As the main hatch began to cycle open, a band comprised of nearly identical musicians struck up “All Hail to the Confederacy,” which seemed pretty unlikely as the Ramanthians won battle after battle, and the government was forced to go looking for new allies. The once-hostile Hudathans were on board, but the Clone Hegemony considered itself to be nonaligned, something President Marcott Nankool was determined to change as he stepped out into bright sunlight.
A receiving line that consisted of senior government offi?cials was waiting to greet Nankool and his staff as they stepped onto the blast-scarred tarmac. The clones who had met the president on previous occasions took note of the fact that he was at least forty pounds lighter since his stint in a Ramanthian POW camp.
Precedence is important where diplomatic matters are concerned, so Christine Vanderveen found herself toward the tail end of the Confederacy’s delegation, in spite of her recent promotion from Foreign Service Offi?cer (FSO)-3 to FSO-2. It involved a signifi?cant increase in authority and responsibility that was partly the result of the manner in which she had distinguished herself while on Jericho. An experience shared with Nankool, who had been on his way to visit the Hegemony, when captured by the enemy. But rather than resent her relatively low status in the delegation, Vanderveen relished it, knowing that very little would be expected of her until actual negotiations got under way. That meant she had more time to look around and absorb the atmosphere as her superiors shook hands with peers, told lies about how wonderful the Hegemony was, and began what was sure to be a high-stakes round of negotiations. Because without help from the Hegemony, which was to say hundreds of thousands of Seebos, there was a very real possibility that the Confederacy would dissolve into its component parts, all of whom would vie with each other to cut a deal with the Ramanthians.
As Vanderveen made her way down the receiving line, one of the fi?rst people she ran into was Ewen Ishimoto-Nine, the Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy. He was normally stationed on Algeron, where the Confederacy’s government had taken up temporary residence, but was home because of the visit. Rather than kiss 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.