When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  And, thanks to the efforts of Lieutenant-620 and his Seebos, all of the 1,142 civilian POWs who had been held prisoner next to the huge generators, were secured before the Ramanthians could execute them. A sharply fought action that would probably earn the young officer a medal, assuming he survived long enough to pin the bauble on.

  Santana jumped to the ground and walked over to stand next to the STO cannon. It was still aimed at a huge crater in the valley below. The Cyon River had begun to flow into the depression by that time, and it looked as if the resulting lake would be three miles long and one mile wide. Santana knew that the next few hours would be filled with casualty lists, the after-action reports that Quinlan loved so much, and a thousand other things. And once that process began, the assault on the dam would begin the slow fade into history. But right then, at that precise moment in time, a battle had been won. And that felt good.

  As the legionnaire looked out over the bloodied valley, and the slowly thickening clouds beyond, a single snowflake came twirling down out of the lead gray sky to land on his navy parka. It was gone a few seconds later. But there would be more to come during the days, weeks, and months ahead. Because the Ramanthians had an ally—and its name was winter.

  7

  Tora! Tora! Tora! (Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!)

  —Coded radio transmission from Commander Mitsuo Fuchida to the

  Japanese Fleet just prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor

  Standard year 1941

  PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  With no fleet left to protect it, Earth was nearly defenseless, as the Ramanthian battleship Regulus and her consorts left hyperspace, and arrowed in toward the blue planet. There were thousands of them. By far the largest fleet ever assembled, even during the first and second Hudathan wars. About 25 percent of the warships were Sheen vessels that had been stolen from the Confederacy, which made the occasion that much more enjoyable from a Ramanthian perspective. Still, even though the once-mighty Stern-Krieger and most of her escorts had been destroyed, elements of the human armada remained. And rather than flee, as Admiral Ru Lorko fully expected them to, the “animals” came out to fight.

  The counterattack wasn’t a smart thing to do, since the Confederacy’s ships were doomed from the start, but it was incredibly brave. And that was something Old Iron Back wasn’t expecting to see from the humans. Not after the way the animals on the Gladiator surrendered months before.

  But it seemed that these aliens were more honorable, and rather than live as cowards, had chosen to die like warriors. It was an honor that Lorko, like any member of the fanatical Nira cult, was duty-bound to grant them. So as destroyers, gunboats, and even tugs threw themselves at the Ramanthian fleet they were snuffed out with methodical precision. Not even lifeboats were spared. A magnificent slaughter that Lorko would never forget.

  But as thousands of humans died, and the admiral took pleasure in his victory, the Queen felt the first stirrings of worry. Because rather than surrender, as she had been assured that they would, the surviving elements of the home fleet had chosen to fight. In order to buy time? So that those down on the planet’s surface could better prepare their defenses? Or for some other reason? The monarch feared the latter. What if the animals were less indolent than they appeared to be? What if somewhere, buried deep within their self-indulgent culture, there was a core of steel? That could be very dangerous indeed!

  The monarch couldn’t afford to let such doubts show, however, as the leading elements of her fleet swept the last remnants of resistance aside and began to trade salvos with the planet’s orbital-defense platforms. The human habitats were massive affairs, each housing more than six thousand animals, and possessing a vast array of weaponry. According to intelligence reports each of the four battle stations was armed with a massive Class I energy cannon, plus two dozen lesser gun emplacements, and an equal number of missile launchers. This meant that, so long as all the platforms were operational, it would be difficult if not impossible to put a significant number of troops on the surface of the planet.

  Impressive though the orbital fortifications were, however, they had a major weakness. And that was the fact that while the ring of battle stations could lose one platform and still bar access to the planet below, the destruction of a neighboring habitat would open a hole large enough that invading ships would be able to pour through. And because the battle stations couldn’t direct their weapons downwards without running the risk of hitting Earth’s surface, once enemy ships managed to penetrate the human defenses, there was nothing to fear from above.

  The remaining battle platforms could launch fighters, however—a threat that the Ramanthians would have to counter. For that reason Admiral Lorko planned to put most of his capital ships against Battle Stations III and IV, while sending a swarm of smaller craft to suppress the aerospace fighters from I and II. If all went well, both platforms would be effectively sidelined.

  Meanwhile, aware that there were fortifications on the moon, Old Iron Back planned to neutralize the batteries in the fastest and most expedient manner possible—nuke them. And that was the way the human colonies on Mars and Jupiter’s moons would be dealt with as well. While Earth had value as a bargaining chip, the rest of the solar system’s settlements weren’t worth occupying, and could be dispensed with.

  Yes, the Queen knew that the humans would make use of the new hypercom technology to call for help, which was why a significant portion of the fleet was being held in reserve. But given the alliance with the Clone Hegemony, plus conflicts elsewhere, it wasn’t clear if the Confederacy would be able to respond in time. The coming hours and days would tell.

  In spite of whatever minor doubts she had, the Queen believed the strategy would work as she looked down upon the jewel-like planet that hung below her. Animals lived on it now. But someday, perhaps thirty years in the future, all of them would be dead.

  BATTLE STATION III, IN ORBIT AROUND PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  “All civilian and supernumerary personnel will report to the mess deck, where they will receive combat support assignments. . . .” Battle Station III’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer’s soft, dispassionate voice was supposed to communicate a sense of calm, even if that didn’t match what was going on. A flight of three enemy missiles struck the station within yards of each other. And the nearly simultaneous explosions caused a shield generator to overload. That created a momentary hole in the space station’s defenses, which one of the Ramanthian fighters managed to exploit by firing a torpedo through it. The entire habitat shuddered as the missile penetrated the hull and killed 216 people. Within seconds the surrounding airtight compartments sealed themselves off and prevented what could have been an even larger catastrophe as the C&C computer delivered the latest piece of bad news. “The battle station’s primary weapon system is off-line,” the computer intoned emotionlessly. “Secondary and tertiary weapons have been delegated to local control. All damage-control parties will report to . . .”

  Lieutenant JG Leo Foley didn’t care where the damage-control parties were going to report. All he wanted to do was to escape the battle station’s brig, round up some sort of transportation, and get the hell off the platform before the bugs began to board it. Because there wasn’t a man or woman in the navy who hadn’t heard about the slaughter that took place aboard the Gladiator once the crew put down their arms and surrendered. Some of the POWs had been taken off the battlewagon to serve as slave labor, but many had been murdered, or left to die when the ship blew. And, assuming the stories were true, the chits were especially hard on officers. Which Foley still was, for the moment at least.

  Foley’s thoughts were interrupted as a hatch opened and a first-class petty officer appeared. His arms were full of printouts, and it looked as though the rating had been ordered to feed the pile of documents into a shredder bolted to the opposite bulkhead. All things considered, that was not a good sign. “Jonesy!” Foley said imploringly
. “You’ve got to let me out of here! You know what the bugs will do if they board. Give me a fighting chance!”

  “Yeah!” a neighboring prisoner agreed loudly. “You heard the loot—give us a fighting chance!”

  The shredder made a grinding noise as the jailer fed sheaves of paper into it. “How stupid do you think I am?” Jones inquired rhetorically. “Rather than fight, you eight balls would run for the nearest escape pod!”

  Foley had something more comfortable than an escape pod in mind, but knew better than to say so, and continued to plead his case. “No way, Jonesy. . . . Let us out of here, give us weapons, and we’ll make the bugs pay!”

  There was a chorus of agreement from the other holding cells as the petty officer fed the last sheets of paper into the shredder. The battle station shuddered as something blew, and the deck started to tilt as 12 percent of the habitat’s steering jets went off-line. Perhaps it was that, as much as anything else, that caused the noncom to pause and reconsider. Foley was a thief by all accounts, although the charges against the officer had yet to be proven, which meant he was theoretically innocent. The rest of the prisoners were enlisted personnel who had been charged with offenses ranging from sleeping on duty to running a distillery down in the battle station’s engineering spaces. All of which were serious offenses, but they didn’t justify the death penalty. And none of them deserved to be killed like rats in a trap. Because, based on what Jonesy had heard, Foley was right. The Ramanthians were merciless. “I’ll probably regret this,” the PO said, as he rounded the duty desk. “But what the hell? I never expected to make chief anyway.”

  A meaty finger stabbed at the touch-sensitive screen, six indicator lights went from red to green, and there was a metallic clang as all the doors slid open. The prisoners were free! Or so it seemed. But moments after rushing out of their cells, and milling around inside the detention facility, a new announcement came over the PA system. And, rather than the well-modulated tones typical of the C&C computer, this voice was human. Thereby raising the possibility that the Command & Control computer was belly-up, too. “This is Lieutenant Commander Nidifer,” the female voice said. “All hands will stand by to repel boarders. I repeat, all hands will stand by to repel boarders.”

  Foley swore. It didn’t take a fleet admiral to figure out that if the main battery was off-line, and most of the secondary armament was down, then the bugs were going to come aboard and clean house. And, worse yet from his perspective, the five pounds of stardust that he’d been willing to sacrifice his navy career to steal was locked up where he couldn’t get at it!

  But there wasn’t anything Foley could do about it, so the larcenous officer made his way out into the main passageway. It was a madhouse. Horns, Klaxons, and smoke detectors continued to honk, bleat, and buzz. The sick bay was full, and had been for some time, which explained why a long line of wounded sailors and marines lay on stretchers next to the outboard bulkhead. Medics were trying to help them, but there weren’t enough hospital corpsmen to go around, so it was already too late for some of the patients.

  Most of the people who were jogging, limping, or being carried past Foley were dressed in pressure suits, a reminder that, because Foley didn’t have one, and wasn’t likely to get his hands on one, he could wind up sucking vacuum. Especially if the chits blew a really big hole in the hull. Foley felt someone touch his arm and turned to find that a dozen brig rats were standing behind him. A second-class petty officer stepped forward. The name on his jumper was Tappas. He was thirty or so, had boyish features, and intelligent eyes. “Okay, sir,” Tappas said calmly. “What do we do now?”

  Foley’s plans, such as they were, didn’t include anyone other than himself. But the sailors looked so forlorn that he couldn’t bring himself to refuse them. “It sounds like the chits are about to board,” Foley said. “So we’re going to need some weapons.”

  Tappas nodded. “Yes, sir. Then what?”

  Foley, who had been planning to steal a six-person lifeboat, was forced to change his thinking. “Once we have the weapons we’ll make a run for the flight deck, grab a shuttle, and head dirtside for some well deserved R&R.”

  It was exactly the kind of plan that Tappas and the rest of the brig rats wanted to hear. So they were quick to follow as Foley led them up corridor toward access way P-8. The corridor would carry the group in toward the lift tubes that were clustered around the battle station’s hollow core, a twelve-deck-tall structure that was home to the habitat’s fusion reactor, the power accumulators that fed the main battery, and the argrav generators.

  Thanks to the confusion, no one thought to ask Foley where he was going. With an officer in the lead, the brig rats looked like a work detail as they jogged single file along the main corridor, accumulating weapons along the way. Which wasn’t all that hard to do given that the wall-mounted arms lockers were open and rows of neatly racked weapons were there for the taking. Energy rifles for the most part, since they were less likely to punch a hole in the battle station’s hull, and let the habitat’s atmosphere out.

  But, having made good progress for a while, Foley and his men ran into a roadblock as they approached Lock 8. There was a flash of light as an energy grenade went off, followed by a concussive bang, and the staccato whine of energy weapons as blue energy bolts stuttered back and forth. “It’s the bugs!” a wild-eyed marine captain announced, as he lurched out of the drifting smoke. Foley saw the bandage that had been tied around the other officer’s head was red with blood, and one of his arms hung uselessly by his side. “Come on!” the leatherneck urged. “Follow me!”

  So Foley followed, knowing that if he and his men were going to reach their objective, they would have to pass the lock. And, having very little choice, Tappas and the rest of the brig rats followed. Bodies lay in heaps where an earlier attempt to board the battle station had been repulsed. But just barely, as was obvious from the fact that most of the casualties were human, and only a handful of marines remained to defend the lock as another assault began.

  A hail of energy bolts sleeted back and forth as a file of heavily armored Ramanthians surged out, firing as they came. And, had the jarheads been forced to battle the aliens alone, the bugs would have been able to break through. But that was when Foley and the brig rats arrived, crouched behind the makeshift barrier that had been established earlier, and opened fire. A Ramanthian trooper went down as energy bolts from a half dozen weapons punched holes in his armor.

  The contest was far from one-sided, as the enemy troopers turned toward their tormentors and fired. They were using projectile weapons, and one of the brig rats was snatched off his feet, as a slug hit him in the chest.

  That made Tappas angry, and the petty officer rolled an energy grenade into the enemy formation, as his companions continued to spray the aliens with energy bolts. There was a bright flash of light, three Ramanthians were blown apart, and pieces of shattered chitin whirled through the air. The bugs appeared to waver, started to fall, and were subsequently cut down as the sheer volume of defensive fire punched holes through their armor. The battle ended three minutes later.

  Having never fought an infantry action before, the brig rats were impressed by their achievement, and were busy high-fiving each other when Tappas noticed that Foley was twenty yards up the corridor and gaining speed. “Come on!” the petty officer shouted. “Follow the loot!”

  The sailors were quick to respond, as were the jarheads, who had their company commander sandwiched between them as they carried the officer along. “Follow me!” the wild-eyed marine exclaimed. “Let’s kill the bastards!”

  Foley saw markers for access corridor P-8, took a glance over his shoulder, and was amazed to discover that the group behind him had grown even larger! Not a good thing from the fugitive’s perspective since it didn’t make sense to go AWOL with the equivalent of a brass band and a couple dozen witnesses along for the ride. But it was too late to worry about such matters as Foley rounded the corner and pounded down the corr
idor toward the lift tubes beyond. The battle platform shook as if palsied, and Foley heard the sound of muted thunder, as a new voice came over the PA system. It was male this time. “This is Lieutenant Simmons . . . All hands prepare to abandon ship. I repeat, all hands . . .”

  Foley swore as he skidded to a halt in front of the tubes. It had been his intention to leave the ship before the rest of the crew were ordered to do so. Because there were only so many escape pods, lifeboats, and other small craft for people to use. That meant the competition for flyable vessels was about to become a lot more intense. Something that could already be seen in the crowd gathered in front of the large personnel lifts.

  By that time Tappas knew that unlike the marine captain, Lieutenant JG Foley was never going to shout something like, “Follow me!” That made it necessary to keep a close eye on the slippery officer or risk losing track of him. And sure enough, without so much as a “by-your-leave,” Tappas saw Foley break away from the steadily swelling mob and start to run. “This way!” Tappas shouted, as he waved the brig rats and the marines forward.

  But others heard the order as well, and being desperate for leadership, were quick to follow. So that by the time Foley arrived in front of the lift tubes normally reserved for freight, more than a hundred people were trailing along behind him. The officer swore as they flooded onto the enormous platform, and repeatedly stabbed the DOWN button, as valuable seconds ticked away. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the platform began to descend.

  Three long minutes passed before the gates opened, and the mob flooded out onto the walkway that circled the vast hangar deck. Plastisteel windows kept the vacuum out but permitted the crowd to look out at the vessels parked on the blast-scarred deck. Even as they watched, a navy launch rose on its repellers, turned toward one of two huge openings, and accelerated away.