When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  Kira Kelly was thousands of light-years away, sailing her father’s boat across a sparkling lake, when a hand shook her shoulder. “Wake up,” Six said urgently. “Get dressed! We have to leave.”

  Kelly looked at her watch and groaned. It was 0126. “Why? It’s dark outside.”

  “Because a battalion of Seebos is trying to get in! I’m not sure yet, but it’s my guess that at least one of the radios we stole has a tracking device in it, which revealed our location. The rebels claim that government forces want to arrest me.”

  Kelly struggled to kick the sleeping bag off. “Arrest you? Why?”

  “Because I chose to fight the Ramanthians my way instead of their way.”

  “But what about the perfect plan?” the doctor wanted to know. “If it’s perfect, you should follow it.”

  “The plan is perfect,” Six replied defensively. “But some of the people who are supposed to implement the plan aren’t. General-453 is an idiot.”

  “So you’re a revolutionary,” Kelly said, as she fastened her boots. “Just like the people you detest.”

  “Don’t you ever stop talking?” Six demanded. “Hurry up.”

  “No,” Kelly said firmly, as she stood. “There’s no need for me to hurry since I’m staying here.” It wasn’t what the doctor wanted to do, but it was what she should do, and Kelly was determined to take a stand.

  “We have Sumi,” Six replied evenly. “And the revolutionaries want you to leave in spite of what you did for them. So get ready.”

  Kelly felt a strange sense of relief knowing that the situation was beyond her control and went off to pack her things.

  Twenty minutes later a Fisk led the soldiers plus twenty-five heavily laden Ortovs through a maze of passageways, down what seemed like endless flights of stairs, and out into the freezing cold. The pursuing Seebos were on the other side of the butte, and the chase was on.

  PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  Consistent with Founder Hosokowa’s master plan, every city of any size had an elaborate water-recovery and purification system designed to take advantage of rainfall and runoff, thereby reducing the need for dams, wells, and expensive pipelines. Once collected, the water had to be stored, which was why the lake-sized reservoir had been constructed before the city was built above it, and had subsequently been capped with a one-foot-thick duracrete lid. That, for lack of a better location, was where the Revolutionary Council was about to hold its first and possibly last public meeting.

  Even though the space wasn’t intended for such gatherings the high-arched ceiling, and the lights that twinkled like distant stars, gave the place a majestic feeling. Folding chairs had been placed on top of the lid, a temporary PA system was up and running, and a ring of pole-mounted spots threw light onto the seats.

  Security was extremely tight. Having been given only an hour’s notice prior to the meeting, the attendees were subjected to DNA analysis as they entered and were processed through a receiving area. The precaution was intended to make sure none of the attendees were surgically altered Romos or Nerovs. Once that formality was out of the way, the representatives were funneled into twelve cleaning stations, where dozens of tiny robots were removed from each delegate and they were given new clothes. Then, and only then, were the men and women who had been chosen to represent the various lines allowed to file out onto the concrete lid and take their seats.

  Christine Vanderveen hated the cleaning process, but was willing to go through it, in order to be present at the very start of the revolution. Assuming Alan and the rest of the Council could muster the votes necessary to start a revolt. Because in order to succeed, the would-be revolutionaries knew they would need support from all of the genetic lines, and at least 70 percent of the overall population. Many of whom were satisfied with their lot in life—or too afraid to oppose authority. Still, Alan believed sufficient support was available, and the Council did as well.

  So once Vanderveen had clothes back on, she was in a hopeful frame of mind as she walked out onto the lid. Because if the revolution was a success, and the Council kept its word, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings would have a new member. Which would be qualitatively different from the lukewarm alliance currently in place. Could that impact the battle for Earth? Vanderveen certainly hoped so, because her mother, and billions of other humans, were in desperate need of help.

  Speed was of the essence, lest the Romos and Nerovs get wind of the gathering, so the last of the incoming delegates were still getting dressed when the meeting was called to order. Vanderveen, who was the only foreign dignitary present, had been given a seat in the first row, where she had a good view of the seven-person council. Though not allowed to record the proceedings or take notes, Vanderveen did the best she could to memorize what went on for inclusion in the report she planned to write later. But would anyone be willing to read a document authored by a renegade diplomat? Yes, Vanderveen thought they would, but only if the revolution was successful. Because at that point Nankool and his senior staff would be desperate for an “in.”

  With the preliminaries out of the way, Alan rose to speak on behalf of the governing council. In terms of appearance, he was almost the polar opposite of Antonio Santana. Because where Alan had light-colored hair—Tony’s was midnight black. And where Alan was idealistic—Tony was cynical. And where Alan was a man of ideas—Tony was a man of action. Yet there were commonalities as well. Both men were intelligent, caring, and funny. So how to choose? Promises had been made to Tony—but the two of them weren’t engaged. All of that was going through the diplomat’s mind as Alan began to speak.

  “Welcome to what may very well be a historic meeting. We are gathered here to consider the first step on a very uncertain path. Which, when you think about it, was the very thing the Founder sought to avoid. Because she believed that all of humanity’s problems, reverses, and tragedies stem from uncertainty. To remedy that, Dr. Hosokowa and her advisors created a plan, a blueprint by which predictable people would do predictable things and produce predictable results.”

  Alan paused at that point. As his bright green eyes made momentary contact with hers, Vanderveen felt something akin to electricity jump the gap. “And it worked,” Alan continued soberly. “Not perfectly, not in every case, but across society as a whole. The pain previously associated with familial relationships was eliminated. The massive gap between the rich and poor was closed. Everyone had equal access to health care. Each person had useful work to do. And even nature was tamed to some extent.

  “So, why give that up? Well, the answer is simple, if somewhat counterintuitive. A predictable existence may be safe, but it’s also boring, and stultifying, and colorless, and joyless. Because without pain there is no pleasure, and without challenge there is no success, and without freedom there is no opportunity to fail! And ultimately to learn from failing.

  “That’s why the Council and I invited you here,” Alan continued earnestly. “To tell you that the time has come. Conditions will never be better than they are right now! Let’s take back our lives, and the right to live them as we see fit, even if we suffer as a result. If you authorize us to do so, we will strike a blow for freedom, and the revolution will begin. I cannot tell you when, where, or how for reasons of security. But I can assure you that once the blow is struck, you and your line will recognize the event for what it is. And that will be the moment when you must lead your brothers and sisters to the ramparts—where those who worship the status quo will defend it to the end. Thank you for listening. The voting process will begin now. No one will be allowed to leave the area until all votes have been submitted and counted.”

  There was a stir as monitors began to make the rounds, and individuals representing the various lines began to cast their votes. Vanderveen was proud of both Alan, and the speech, and felt sure that Nankool would approve as well had the president been present to hear it.

  The results were available fifteen minutes later. Vanderveen felt a sudden emptiness i
n the pit of her stomach as the results of the vote were brought forward for review by the Council prior to the formal announcement. Because if those seated all around the diplomat had a stake in the outcome, then so did she, and those she had chosen to represent. Whether they wanted her to do so or not!

  Vanderveen watched carefully as the piece of paper was passed from person to person. She tried to read the Council’s faces, searching for the slightest glimmer of joy or disappointment, but without success. Because one of the hall-marks of the perfect society was the need to conceal one’s emotions. It was something all of the clones were extremely good at. So when Alan rose to read out the results, the diplomat had no idea of what to expect. “The votes have been counted,” the rebel said gravely as he looked out over the assemblage. “And your decision is clear. You chose freedom—and all it entails. The revolution has begun.”

  There were cheers as the delegates came to their feet, and somehow, in all the hubbub that followed, Vanderveen found herself in Alan’s arms. There was pleasure in the long, tender kiss that followed, but a sense of guilt as well. Because promises had been made on planets far, far away. Promises that echoed through her mind, robbed the kiss of its sweetness, and left the diplomat confused, for the memory of the legionnaire was bright and clear. He was smiling down at her as they lay together on the hill above her parents’ estate, toying with a lock of her hair, while a hawk wheeled high above. Then a cheer went up, the embrace came to an end, and the vision disappeared.

  It was a sunny day, and as Vanderveen followed Alan and a team of Fisks along a busy street toward Bio-Storage Building 516, she was struck by how unassuming the drab one-story structure was. Except that description wasn’t really accurate. For Building 516 was an inverted skyscraper that extended hundreds of feet down below the planet’s surface—a design intended to protect both the structure and its contents from everything up to and including an orbital attack. Because there was nothing more precious to the Hegemony’s hereditary social structure than the sperm and ova stored in the carefully maintained bio vaults below. There were duplicate facilities, of course. Two of them. Both located on other planets. But neither had the symbolic and emotional heft that 516 had, which was why it was the perfect place to start the revolution. And why it was heavily guarded.

  But the freedom fighters had a number of things going for them, including the element of surprise and a cadre of revolutionary sympathizers who were waiting inside the building. The assault was timed to coincide with the morning rush hour, a time when it was perfectly natural to see lots of people on the street. Normal, that is, until a hundred of them suddenly broke away from the main flow and turned in toward the storage building.

  Vanderveen heard the staccato rattle of gunfire as the shock troops at the head of the column took submachine guns out from under their trench coats and opened fire on the Seebos stationed in front of the main entrance. Only one of the six soldiers managed to fire a shot, but it was deadly, and the diplomat had to step over a dead Fisk as she followed the others into the building. She felt sorry for casualties from both sides of the conflict.

  The second line of defense consisted of four Romos. They were in charge of the security checkpoint located in the lobby beyond the front door, and having already been alerted by the sound of gunfire, were waiting with guns drawn. But as the policemen turned their attention outward, and prepared to fight the invaders, two female Crowleys attacked the men from the rear. The gentechs were armed with pistols that had been smuggled into the facility piece by piece over a period of weeks. And even though the women weren’t experienced with firearms, they didn’t have to be, since the unsuspecting policemen were only a few feet away.

  Most of the Romos weren’t members of the hated death squads, but some were, which was justification enough as the Crowleys emptied their weapons. There was no way that body armor could protect the policemen’s heads, which appeared to explode as the high-velocity projectiles hit them. As Alan, Mary, and Vanderveen followed a phalanx of Fisks into the lobby, they were forced to pass through something resembling a slaughterhouse. The diplomat had seen a lot of violence during her relatively short career, and even been forced to take some lives herself, but she had never experienced anything worse than the sight of the blood-drenched walls, the smell of suddenly released feces, and the pathetic whimpering noises that the single survivor uttered as he lay fetuslike in a pool of his own blood.

  A Fisk pointed a gun at the Romo, as if preparing to finish him off, but Alan intervened. “No,” the Trotski said firmly. “He was doing what he was bred to do. . . . Just as you are.”

  The anarchist gave Alan a strange look and turned away. “We need a medic!” Alan shouted, and one paused to help, as more rebels pushed in off the street. Many were carrying supplies in case of a siege.

  “All right!” Fisk-3 shouted. “The alarm has gone out—and government troops are on the way. . . . So let’s get some people up onto the roof! And watch your backs. . . . There are still plenty of Romos and Nerovs inside the building.”

  At that point, all of the measures intended to protect Building 516 from external threats were turned against the authorities, as they were forced to set up a security cordon around the now-impregnable fortress, and try to come up with a plan to force their way in. Except that the people inside had hostages, billions of them, in the form of frozen sperm and ova.

  Meanwhile, as heavily armed revolutionaries worked to block all of the street-level entrances to the building, specially designated teams went looking for Romos and Nerovs who had already gone into hiding. Except that hiding was difficult to do, because the Crowleys knew where to look, and it wasn’t long before the remaining security men were killed or captured, leaving Bio-Storage Building 516 secure—for the moment at least.

  All of which was bad enough from the government’s point of view. But what happened next took the loss of Building 516 and multiplied the disaster by a thousand times as the enterprising revolutionaries tapped into the planetwide communications system and took control. Suddenly, out of nowhere, both the Alpha Clones and millions of citizens found themselves looking at a man who’s official name was Trotski-4, but introduced himself as “Alan.”

  As the revolutionary began to explain why Building 516 had been taken, one of Nankool’s aids rushed into the president’s temporary office to tell the chief executive about the live feed. It was only moments later, as Nankool’s staff gathered around to watch the impromptu newscast, that Undersecretary Zimmer said, “Look!” And pointed at the screen. “It’s Christine Vanderveen!”

  And sure enough, standing behind the clone named Alan, to his right, was the missing diplomat. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the president was heard to say. But Nankool had a smile on his face—and that was a wonderful sight indeed.

  12

  Every mile is two in the winter.

  —George Herbert

  Jacula Prudentum

  Standard year 1651

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  The snow had stopped, the clouds had blown away, and the sun was out. So as the fly-form circled Marine Firebase 356 (MF-356), Captain Antonio Santana and Lieutenant Mitch Millar had an excellent view of the hilltop fortification below. However, because Millar was a cyborg, and therefore capable of plugging in to the fly-form’s circuitry, the recon ball could enjoy what amounted to a 360-degree sensaround, while the bio bod was left to peer out the window next to him.

  Still, Santana could see that MF-356 was well positioned to put fire on the highway, and serve as a staging point for local area patrols. And, should the bugs attempt to take it, the hill would be a tough nut to crack. Although the firebase’s considerable weaponry had been useless in the face of Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666’s act of cold-blooded treachery. An armed invasion that cost the lives of twenty-three marines and resulted in the loss of two ton’s worth of supplies. And now, having narrowly escaped arrest some fifty hours earlier, the renegade would be even more wary tha
n before. And that would make him difficult to catch. Especially since the clone was an expert at cold-weather survival techniques and familiar with the local terrain.

  But, as the fly-form came in to hover above the hilltop landing platform, Santana thought he had a fix on the renegade’s critical weakness. Or strength, depending on how one chose to look at it. And that was Colonel Six’s determination to close with the enemy and kill as many of them as he could. That desire, that determination, would make the fugitive somewhat predictable. Or so Santana hoped.

  There was a palpable thud as the fly-form put down. Servos whined softly as Millar extruded two skeletal tool aims, which the cyborg used to release the tie-downs that secured his sphere-shaped body to the seat. The cyborg’s war form incorporated four high-res vid cams, a variety of weaponry, and the capacity to fly long distances at low altitudes—which was one of the primary reasons why Santana had requested one of the much-sought-after scouts. While no one could beat Fareye on the ground, and recon drones had their uses, nothing could surpass a flying brain when it came to collecting and distributing real-time battlefield intelligence. Having freed himself from the tie-downs, Millar hovered in midair, as Santana got up and made his way forward. In spite of whatever special capabilities the cyborg might have, he was a lieutenant and the bio bod was a captain.

  Even though the sun was out, it lacked any real punch, and the air outside the aircraft’s cabin was bitterly cold. So cold that the legionnaire could feel the moisture freeze inside his nose as he descended the fold-down stairs and snapped to attention. He held the salute until a short, stern-looking lieutenant colonel saw fit to return it. “I’m Captain Antonio Santana, sir . . . And this is Lieutenant Mitch Millar. We’re both with the 2nd Battalion, 1st REC.” The cyborg had exited the fly-form by that time—and was hovering four feet above the landing platform.