The Final Battle

The com-ball had traveled a long, long way. The device had originated on Beta-001, clamped itself to the skin of an outbound robo-freighter, remained in place until the ship reached Alpha-001’s gravity well, transferred itself to a surface-bound shuttle, slipped past customs, and hid until darkness fell.

Then, in accordance with the programming provided on Beta-001, and new information downloaded from an illegal micro-sat, the com-ball reactivated the expensive antigrav generator that kept it aloft, and used air jets to maneuver its way through Alpha-Prime’s gridlike streets.

Expensive or not, the antigrav unit couldn’t lift the device any higher than a few hundred feet, so it was forced to wend its way between rows of high-rise buildings, all of which looked the same, and were filled with equally identical people. Many of whom could be seen through brightly lit windows, sitting with mostly same-sex companions, or watching government-approved holos.

But none of that was of interest to the com-ball, which had been given a specific mission, and didn’t care about anything else. The building it sought was located in the most run-down section of the city, the part that had been built around the first spaceport, and was therefore different from the rest. There was irony in that, since the quarry was different, too, but that particular nuance lay beyond the parameters of the machine’s programming.

Having located what it believed to be the correct choice, the messenger verified the address using one of the government’s global positioning satellites, circled the eleventh floor, found the room designated as 1106, hovered outside long enough to make sure the subject was home, and rose to survey the roof.

Protective mechanisms might have been placed around the building, the com-ball’s programming was quite specific about that, which meant that the machine had to find and neutralize any such devices prior to entry. And sure enough, the messenger found six full-function detectors, a pre-provisioned escape route, and two carefully disguised hidey-holes, one of which contained a considerable quantity of illegal weapons and other equipment.

Having completed its survey, the com-ball activated certain subprograms and destroyed the sensors with carefully placed bursts of coherent energy. Then, satisfied that it could enter the structure unannounced, the device propelled itself towards the side of the building.

Fisk-Eight had been living in room 1106 for quite some time now. He looked up into Yee-Two’s face and wondered what she actually felt. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open. Was the appearance of pleasure real? Or just another aspect of what he had paid for? Ah well, no matter. She had a nice body and knew how to use it.

Yee’s artificially enhanced breasts flopped up and down as she moved, and tiny beads of sweat had appeared on her upper lip. Fisk-Eight was extremely close to orgasm when the com-ball smashed through the window and sent shards of glass flying in every direction.

Yee was on a downstroke when the messenger put an energy beam through her head. It entered through the back of her skull, exited between her eyes, and burned a hole through the anarchist’s pillow. The body had toppled sideways and was in the process of falling when Fisk-Eight went for his handgun. A red dot appeared in the middle of his chest and froze him in place. The voice was unexpectedly familiar. “Move and you will die.”

Fisk-Eight thought the voice belonged to Alpha Clone Marcus at first, but realized his mistake as the com-ball projected beams of light into the room and a pair of images appeared. The first belonged to the Alpha Clone Pietro, and the second to his brother Antonio. Although he had never been in direct contact with them, Fisk-Eight was well aware of the fact that the Alpha clones had financed his cell, supported the assassination attempt, and if Pietro’s expression was any guide, were far from happy.

Though programmed to accomplish certain things, the com-ball’s artificial intelligence was free to tackle the job in any way that it saw fit, and used that freedom to weave the anarchist’s surroundings into the message it had been ordered to deliver.

“So,” the image named Pietro began, “you imagined that you could simply walk away from your failure, hole up here, and escape the consequences.”

The com-ball remained where it was, but the red dot had started to drift a little, down off Fisk-Eight’s chest, and over his lower torso. It takes a long time to die from an abdominal wound and the anarchist pulled his stomach in. “No, I did the best I could, but things went wrong.”

“Yes, they certainly did,” Pietro continued smoothly. “Marcus lives, the Legion whore shares his bed, and Alpha-001 functions as an undeclared ally of the Confederacy. All because of you.”

“Oh, but it was,” the image of Pietro said calmly, as it paced back and forth. “Tell him, Antonio, tell him why it was his fault, and how the situation can be corrected.”

Antonio smiled vacantly. His hair gleamed with pomade and his body was strangely transparent. “It might interest you to know that you are the only Fisk still alive. You encouraged Fisk-Three to sacrifice himself during the assassination attempt, and we terminated the rest, starting with the child called Twenty-seven, and working our way through two-hundred thirty-six more. Would you like to know why?”

Fisk watched the dot. It drifted downwards and lingered over his already shriveled penis. His throat was tight and he found that it was difficult to speak. “Yes, tell me why.”

“Because,” Antonio said, his eyes also on the dot, “you and those like you are an aberration, one of the few mistakes the Founder made. She feared that a society without anarchists might become too stable, might grow complacent, and fall of its own weight. So to keep my brothers and me on our toes, and create a counterbalancing effect, she commissioned the Fisk line, the Trotski line, and a couple more. The unintended effect was that by existing, by being who you are, you and your brothers had a tendency to destabilize those around you. So much so that you even undermined the effectiveness of your own cell, sacrificed a member of your own line, and went your own way.”

The dot was stationary. It seemed to pulse slightly and Fisk-Eight felt a growing sense of warmth around his genitals. Sweat covered his forehead and he held on to the bedsheets with both hands. “Tell me, tell me what I can dog . . . .”

Warmth had turned into real heat. His genitals felt as if they were on fire. Fisk-Eight felt his eyes start to bulge. “Yes! I’m inferior! I’ll do whatever you say!”

Fisk-Eight fought against the pain. What was that smell anyway? Burned linen? Singed pubic hair? “Anything. . . I’ll do anything you want.”

The pain started to fade. “Excellent,” Pietro said, pausing at the foot of the bed. “Do as we command, and life will be very pleasant for you.”

Both images faded to nothingness, the dot disappeared, and the com-ball floated out through the broken window. The anarchist held his genitals with both hands, ignored the smell that emanated from the vicinity of Yee’s body, and started to think. Marcus would have to die, that much was clear, the only question was how.

Mosby turned slowly, admiring herself in the full-length mirror. Her body had a tendency to gain weight and she had done battle with it through a regimen of dieting and exercise. But her breasts were visibly larger and the lower part of her abdomen more rounded than before, a fact that accounted for the increasing tightness of her uniforms. The changes in her body served to confirm what the self-administered test had already told her. She was pregnant.

The knowledge made Mosby happy, since she had wanted to have a baby for a long time, but her joy was clouded by the problems that faced her. Although she and Marcus had enjoyed an extremely active sex life, free of all contraceptive measures, they had never discussed what would almost surely happen as a result, and Mosby feared that the reality of her pregnancy might cause a crisis in their relationship.

Also, there was her career to think of, and her obligations to the Legion. There was absolutely no doubt that President Anguar knew of her affair, and had ordered her superiors to ignore the situation so long as it served the Confederacy’s purposes, but what if Marcus denied her? She would miss him, but she would miss the information provided by his spy even more, as would the rest of the Confederacy.

It all served to make the next few days even more important. Marcus had invited her to his country estate. She hoped her stay would provide the perfect setting in which to tell the Alpha clone about her pregnancy and secure their relationship. A relationship that would meet her needs and the Legion’s as well. Mosby padded out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. A rather generously cut summer-weight dress had been laid out on the bed and she looked forward to wearing it after a week of supertight uniforms.

Bio-storage Building 516 was just as unassuming as its name. What appeared to be a low-slung warehouse was actually just the topmost level of a multistoried building that reached down instead of up. But in spite of the precautions taken to protect it from aerial attack, the uppermost levels of the facility were relatively accessible and given over to various kinds of genetic research.

The levels below them were a good deal more secure, however, housing as they did the backup supplies of sperm and ovum necessary to ensure that the Founder’s grand vision would be enacted, even if the primary and secondary storage facilities located thousands of miles away were somehow destroyed.

But it was the deepest levels, those to which only a trusted few had access, that Fisk-Eight wished to visit. But every lock has a key, and thanks to his training and will to survive, it took Fisk-Eight a surprisingly short time to find the one that he needed.

By activating his carefully nurtured network of contacts and informants, the anarchist discovered that a gentech named Crowley-Three had not only managed to avoid using the government-mandated contraceptives, but had also given birth to an unsanctioned free-breeder baby, and was necessarily raising the one-of-a-kind infant at home. Converting the unfortunate woman to his needs was almost too simple, since Crowley knew that the authorities would take her child off-planet should it be discovered, and leave her behind.

So Fisk met the gentech in the cafeteria, pretended to have a friendly conversation with her, and accepted the I.D. badge that she slipped under the table. It said “Visitor” across the front and Eight clipped it to his breast pocket while pretending to tie a shoe. From there they went to a bank of elevators, waited for one to arrive, and stepped aboard. The anarchist found himself in the presence of eight clones, including four additional Crowleys. All were female, had wide-set green eyes, and a scattering of freckles across their noses.

Three exchanged greetings with them, explained that Fisk had been ordered to run a storage audit, and would be accompanying them to the lowest level. A variety of genetic lines had been sent to carry out this task in the past so the Crowleys nodded, welcomed the anarchist to the facility, and entered into an animated discussion of the weather. The platform paused twice to let others get off. The anarchist felt his stomach muscles tighten as the elevator dropped to the lowest level. Crowley-Three swore she had taken care of the necessary clearances, but had she? The fact that she had given birth to an unsanctioned baby, and had managed to conceal it from the authorities, argued for her competence, but who could be sure?

The door swished open and he followed the Crowleys left, off the platform. A security guard got off his stool, gave the clones a cursory once-over, and checked Eight’s pass. He frowned, ran a scanner over the bar code printed along the bottom edge of his card, and smiled when a green light came on. “Thank you, sir. You may proceed.”

Fisk-Eight nodded agreeably, followed Crowley-Three down a side corridor, through some double doors, and into a white-walled room. Crowley pressed a hand against the wall, waited while her prints were scanned, and turned as a door opened. The anarchist followed her into a comfortably furnished apartment. An easel filled one corner, music floated on perfumed air, and plants thrived under fiber-optic-supplied sunlight. A far cry from the laboratorylike setting he had envisioned. A man sat gazing at a holo sculpture. He turned, stood, and smiled. “Crowley-Three, isn’t it? I thought so. Your walk gives you away. And who might this be? I don’t remember seeing your line before.”

Fisk had fancied himself as immune to the effects of celebrity but found himself wanting to address the man as “sir.” Because even though he had been through different experiences, and was therefore mentally and emotionally distinct from the Alpha clone Marcus, the backup looked exactly the same. It took an act of will to remember that this wasn’t the same man, and was in fact little more than a living organ bank, on standby in case Marcus needed a new heart, liver, or kidney.

This was where things could get tricky. The anarchist had made certain assumptions about the backup’s life experience, about his state of mind, and everything rode on his being right. Fisk-Eight cleared his throat and looked at Crowley. “Get the container we agreed on plus the auto cart. And remember, one word, and your secret will be out.”

Crowley grew pale, nodded in a jerky manner, and backed out of the room. The backup observed all this with a slightly raised eyebrow and turned to Fisk. “This grows curiouser and curiouser. I have an implant. Tell me why I shouldn’t use it to summon help.”

Fisk-Eight spread empty hands. Everything depended on what he said. The words were chosen with care. “Because I can offer you the one thing you want most . . . freedom.”

Although the villa suffered from the same lack of architectural flair common to most structures on Alpha-001, the site made up for it. Set into the side of a heavily forested slope, and located at the top of a sheer two-hundred-foot drop, the veranda looked out over the shimmering surface of a lake. The Founder’s cartographers had blessed the body of water with the designator NE-47/65, but Mosby thought it deserved a name, and was in the process of picking one when Marcus sidled up behind her. His lips found an earlobe and his hands cupped her breasts. “And how is my favorite general this morning?”

“He couldn’t be better,” Marcus said warmly, kissing her on the cheek, then moving away. “I have news. News your superiors will want to hear.”

Marcus scanned the buffet table, selected some fruit, and forked it onto a plate. “The very best kind of news. The kind the enemy doesn’t know you have.”

Marcus shook his head in mock amazement. “Legionnaires are so violent. I’m surprised the Founder didn’t use your particular genetic line to staff our officer corps.”

Mosby grinned. “Sure, so you could ruin her plan by seducing thousands of women who look like me. Besides, my parents were ministers, so spill it.”

Marcus grew serious. “My spy tells me that the Hudathans are preparing to attack a planet called Algeron. That’s a military world, isn’t it?”

Mosby nodded. “Yes, Algeron belongs to the Legion and represents an important strategic target. We didn’t expect an attack quite so soon, but Poseen-Ka lost the first war there, and will be eager to secure it. May I share the news?”

The question was a mere formality, and both of them knew it, but Marcus waved a piece of fruit in her direction. “Of course. That’s why I told you.”

The guard, one of an entire company of Jonathan Alan Sebo’s stationed in the vicinity of the villa, watched the limo approach, saw the insignia on the front bumper, and popped to attention. His salute was crisp and professional.

Fisk-Eight, dressed as a chauffeur, braked the car to a halt. He touched a button and waited while the driver’s side window whirred out of the way. He searched for and found the knowing smile that one servant reserves for another. “Good morning, soldier . . . Alpha Clone Antonio to see Alpha Clone Marcus.”

Stupid foot soldiers aren’t half as valuable as intelligent foot soldiers, so the original Sebo had been chosen as much for his I.Q. as his physical makeup and well-tested courage.

But soldiers grow used to orders, especially when they came from well-known authority figures, and Sebo-945 was momentarily confused. The sergeant of the guard, Sebo-612, had made no mention of a high-level visit, yet there was no denying the existence of the driver, the limo, and the bumper insignia.

Sebo-945 was about to call for assistance when another window whirred down. There was also no denying the identity of the head that poked out. Everyone knew Alpha Clone Antonio and his greasy hair. He looked annoyed. “Is there a problem?”

Sebo-945 popped another salute. Right or wrong, he would take the chance. “No, sir. Routine security check, sir. I’ll call the villa and let them know that you arrived.”

The Alpha clone smiled and motioned 945 closer. “Do me a favor, soldier, and don’t notify the house. It’s our decanting day, and I want to surprise brother Marcus.” The leader followed his comment with a wink and Sebo found himself winking in return. “Yes, sir! It shall be as you say, sir. Congratulations, and many happy returns.”

The Alpha clone nodded politely and disappeared behind polarized glass. The barrier swung up and out of the way, the limo whispered down the gently curving drive, and Sebo made the appropriate entry in the gate log. There was little doubt that 612 would approve of his actions and give him a well-deserved attaboy.

Sun streamed down through the trees that bordered the veranda and dappled the flagstones with branch-thinned light. Marcus sat gazing out over the lake as Mosby emerged from the villa and took an adjoining chair. He turned, smiled affectionately, and held out his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Mosby felt his hand close around hers and knew that a better time would never come. She smiled in return. “You’re not the only one with news. I hope you want me here once I tell you what it is.”

Marcus frowned. Had she received orders? There was a war on, after all, and Mosby was one of the Confederacy’s top generals. Yes, they had allowed her to stay as part of their plan to secure his assistance, but other needs might be greater. “Orders? Did they give you orders?”

Marcus had known that he’d hear those words one day and wondered how he’d receive them. Would he be shocked? Worried? Frightened? Any such emotions might be appropriate since there would be no hiding her pregnancy, and once delivered, the baby would change the future of his planet. The laws forbidding natural childbirth would have to be revoked, the ties that bound them to the rest of the Hegemony would be forever severed, and the changes that resulted would usher in a new, more democratic form of government. He would be unemployed.

All such thoughts should have left Marcus depressed, should have sent him searching for a way out, but they had no such effect. An expression of tremendous joy came over his face, he leaped to his feet, and pulled Mosby to hers. Her heart leaped as he danced her around the swimming pool. “That’s wonderful, incredible, joyful news! Will it be a boy or a girl?”

“Marvelous,” Marcus said happily, pausing to catch his breath, “just marvelous. I can hardly wait. When? When will our little surprise be born?”

Mosby spun, reaching for a side arm that wasn’t there. The anarchist shook his head and waggled a handgun in her direction. “That’ll be enough of that, General. Put your hands on the top of your head. And you can save your energy, Alpha Clone Marcus, I have a little black box that can and is jamming your implant’s ability to send. It worked on your brother here . . . so it’ll work on you.”

Marcus continued his attempts to send on the chance that the man in front of him was lying and felt ice-cold fear trickle through his bloodstream as another Alpha clone stepped out onto the veranda. “Antonio? Is that you?”

The other man shook his head. “Nope, just one of your trusty backups, out for a little stroll. Nice place, by the way . . . I’ll enjoy it.”

Fisk-Eight saw a look of realization settle over the real Alpha clone’s face and laughed. “That’s right, Your Clone-ship, all he has to do is wash the grease out of his hair, and presto—a brand-new and considerably more loyal Marcus is born. Your brothers wanted you dead . . . but this will please them even more. Now walk over to the edge of the veranda and climb up on the wall. Let’s see if you can fly.”

The backup watched his brother back towards the rock wall and the abyss beyond. Here it was, just what he’d always dreamed of, the opportunity to be a real Alpha clone. He remembered the passage of the years, the seemingly endless parade of video clips of Alpha Clone Marcus as he cut ribbons, met with workers, toured factories, attended meetings, and reviewed troops.

And all he had to do to in order to take control was to assist in his brother’s murder. Of course a real leader would tidy things up by getting rid of the free-breeder female, the anarchist named Fisk-Eight, the gentech called Crowley-Three, and two or three others, but that would be relatively easy. If he really wanted to rule, if power meant that much to him, if it was worth the price.

Mosby felt the wall touch the back of her calves. She had already decided that there was no damned way that she would jump off the cliff of her own volition. The baby would die, and so would she, but they’d go down fighting. She measured the distance between herself and the would-be assassin, shifted her weight to her right foot, and prepared to charge.

Marcus knew his lover would go for the gun and had decided to beat her to the punch. The gunman would kill him, there was little doubt about that, but it would be worth it if she lived. Especially since he had little doubt that once Mosby got her hands on the anarchist, his life would end shortly thereafter. He had already started into motion when the backup threw himself at Fisk’s legs.

It was a clumsy move, and one from which there would have been little chance of recovery, had the clone been acting alone. But the real Marcus hit the anarchist after that, quickly followed by Mosby, who wasted little time in snapping Fisk-Eight’s neck.

It took a few moments for the three of them to untangle themselves and stand. Marcus looked at his twin. “Why? It probably would have worked.”

The backup shrugged. “No offense, brother, but when I thought about the way you live, compared to the way I live, I wasn’t sure which was worse. Life in my apartment beats the hell out of your meetings. Of course there are my organs to consider, but what the hell, you look reasonably healthy. Let’s make sure you stay that way.”

Marcus laughed, slapped his brother on the back, and turned to Mosby. “Come here, honey . . . I want you to meet your future brother-in-law.”