When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  Having gone through a second defensive perimeter, Six felt a sense of satisfaction as he and his Seebos passed the stilt-mounted observation tower and stopped just short of the circular landing pad beyond. It consisted of rock-hard heat-fused soil that resembled volcanic glass. A variety of sandbagged enclosures marked weapons emplacements and the bunkers that lay below. To the clone’s eyes the firebase looked like a well-stocked supermarket that could supply his troops for weeks to come. Not with some MREs, and a few thousand rounds of ammunition, but with all of the things that the free breeders would refuse him were he to ask. Like the shoulder-launched missiles he and his men were going to need in order to fulfill the next part of his plan. A rich harvest indeed! But first it would be necessary to play a part.

  All of the marines knew about the Seebos, but very few had seen any of the clones close-up, so there was a tendency to stare as the Hegemony’s soldiers topped the hill. One of the onlookers was Lieutenant Kira Kelly. She was a doctor, and like all of the medical staff assigned to the Marine Corps, she belonged to the navy. And with most of the battalion in the field, and having held sick call earlier that morning, she was sitting outside her surgery, enjoying a cup of hot caf when the clones arrived.

  It was strange to see so many virtually identical men—the only difference being variations in age. Having read up on the subject, Kelly knew that appearances were deceiving, because each soldier had a different personality, which was obvious from the wide variety of expressions that could be seen on their faces, the manner in which they held their bodies, and the way some of them stared at her.

  Kelly noticed that one man had a pronounced limp and went out to meet him. But, before she could speak to the soldier, a colonel stepped in between them. “Don’t you have some work to do, Lieutenant?” Six demanded. “Because if you don’t, I’ll speak with Captain Smith, and I’m sure we can find some.”

  Kelly had short, flaming red hair, piercing blue eyes, and what most people agreed was a two-second fuse. So when she turned to confront Six, the physician gave him what her subordinates generally referred to as “the look.” It consisted of a narrow-eyed stare that was normally reserved for incompetents, slackers, and other assorted miscreants. That, plus the way her hands rested on her hips, was a sure sign that the shit was about to hit the fan. Two marines close enough to be privy to the exchange looked at each other and grinned. “First, Colonel whatever your number is, I don’t report to you. Second, I don’t report to Smith either. And, third, I am doing my goddamned job! And if you try to interfere with me, Chief Kibaki will blow your motherfucking head off!”

  “Sorry,” a deep basso voice said from somewhere behind the clone. “But Dr. Kelly is correct. If you try to interfere with her, I will blow your motherfucking head off. . . . Except you don’t have a mother. . . . Do you, sir?”

  That caused every marine within earshot to laugh. And Six turned to discover that a huge black man was pointing a pistol at his head while grinning from ear to ear. The Seebos didn’t like that, and were reaching for their weapons, when Lieutenant-44 snapped, “As you were!” Because he knew that one wrong move could start an all-out shooting war. One the clones would lose.

  Six was thunderstruck. Partly because the free-breeding female was the first person to question his authority in a long time, but also because Kelly was so pretty it took his breath away. That made the officer ashamed, because such reactions were wrong, and he of all people was supposed to control himself.

  But when the clone turned back, ready to deliver a stern rebuke, it was to find that the doctor was helping 81 over to an ammo crate so he could take his right boot off. There was an audible click as Kibaki let the hammer down and returned the pistol to its shoulder holster. “Don’t let the doc get to you, sir. . . . Dr. Kelly has a lot of edges, but there ain’t none better! Especially when the casualties start to roll on in.”

  Smith came to the clone’s rescue at that point by offering Six a lukewarm shower, and a hot meal. But Lieutenant-44 had witnessed the whole thing, and knowing his commanding officer the way he did, wondered if that would be the end of it. Everyone knew Colonel Six was a horny old bastard. Everybody except him that is. . . . Which was what made the whole thing interesting. Four-four grinned and went in search of something to eat.

  The night was cold, and a light snow was falling, as the clone noncoms made their rounds. There was a chorus of groans as the soldiers extricated themselves from their sleeping bags, pulled their boots on, and checked their weapons. Once the Seebos were ready, they left the relative comfort of the bunkers to which they had been assigned for the freezing cold air outside. Each squad had a separate objective—but the same basic orders: Take control of the base, prevent communications with the outside world, and keep casualties to a minimum. And the effort went well at first. Four-Four led a squad into the Bat HQ bunker, where they took Captain Smith, the duty sergeant, and the RT (radio tech) prisoner. Meanwhile, other teams took control of the weapons pits, the observation tower, and the supply dump.

  In fact, the entire operation might have gone off without a hitch had it not been for the fact that Private Harley Haskins had a bad case of the runs. The problem forced the jarhead to exit his sleeping bag in a hurry, grab his weapon, and dash out into the night. The partially screened four-holer was located about twenty-five feet away, and it seemed like a mile. Having dropped trou, Haskins was forced to plant his formerly warm ass on slushy plywood as a regiment of snowflakes parachuted out of the sky. And that’s where he was, shitting his guts out, when a group of clones paused just beyond the privacy screen. Then, as one of the Seebo sergeants paused to remind his brothers “To use knives rather than guns,” Haskins hurried to wipe himself. Having hoisted his pants, and grabbed his weapon, the marine did what any good leatherneck would do: He followed the clones to the front gate, saw them take a sentry down, and opened fire. And, because Haskins was a good shot, all six of the clone bastards fell.

  But the sound of gunfire set off what could only be described as five minutes of hell, as Haskins tried to warn his buddies over the companywide push, and those marines who hadn’t already been taken prisoner opened fire on anything that moved. That resulted in two deaths from friendly fire—and triggered the predictable response from the Seebos. Having lost six brothers to the free breeders, the clones went on a killing rampage, even going so far as to kill a marine who was already bound hand and foot. Lieutenant-44 ran from position to position ordering his men to stop, but that took time and a number of people were killed in the interim.

  In the meantime the sound of gunfire caused Kelly to sit up and start to push the sleeping bag down off her legs when a figure loomed over her. A single light had been left on inside the surgery, and because the man was backlit, it was impossible to see who the visitor was. “Chief?” Kelly inquired. “Is that you?”

  “No,” Colonel Six replied flatly. “The chief never made it out of his sleeping bag. My men roped him to his cot.”

  As Kelly continued to work herself free, she heard a half dozen shots followed by a profound silence. “What’s going on?” the doctor demanded angrily. “We’re supposed to be allies!”

  “Not in my book,” Six responded darkly, as the woman’s feet hit the rubber mat. “Once we push the Ramanthians back into space, it will be your turn. In the meantime, we need supplies, and that’s why we’re here. Gather your things. You’re coming with us.”

  Kelly had her boots on by then and she stood. Her eyes flashed and Six felt her presence so strongly he wanted to push the free breeder down on the cot and rape her. But that would be wrong, very wrong, so the officer held himself in check. “I’m staying here,” Kelly said tightly. “Now get the hell out of the way. People could be dying out there.”

  “People have died out there,” Six replied grimly. “And how many more of them die will depend on you. Choose one medic. Anyone other than the chief. Pack enough supplies to support an infantry company for a month. Don’t worry about weight. You
won’t have to carry it.”

  Kelly folded her arms and looked up into his heavily shadowed face. “No,” she said defiantly. “I won’t do it.”

  The clone stared down into her eyes. “Sergeant . . .”

  “Sir!” a noncom said, as he stepped out into the half-light.

  “Go get one of the marines. Any marine. Bring him here.”

  “Sir, yes sir,” the Seebo said obediently, and disappeared.

  “Will one be enough?” Six inquired. “Or will it be necessary to shoot more?”

  Kelly stared into the clone’s hard, implacable eyes. “You’re crazy.”

  “No,” Six replied calmly. “I’m a soldier engaged in a war against a ruthless enemy that will do anything to win. In order to beat them, we will have to be equally ruthless. Our survival depends on it.”

  As luck would have it the person the clones dragged into the surgery was Hospital Corpsman Third Class Sumi. A small man, with black hair, who was clearly pissed off. “What’s going on, ma’am?” the medic wanted to know. “The clone bastards shot a whole lot of our guys—and they won’t let me help them!”

  “Here’s the deal,” Kelly said grimly, as she stood with hands on hips. “You let Sumi and I treat all of the wounded, yours included, and we’ll go with you. Otherwise, you can go ahead and start shooting. And you’d better start with me!”

  It was a good suggestion. Six knew that. But even though it made sense, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot the doctor and thereby deny her services to his men. That’s what he told himself anyway as the officer took a full step backwards. “Okay, Doctor, have it your way. But hurry. I’ll give you one hour to treat the wounded and pack. Then we’re leaving. And we’ll be watching you. Step out of line, and the chief dies.”

  The next hour was a living nightmare as Kelly and one of her medics sought to save as many lives as they could while Sumi packed their gear. Which, thanks to the fact that all their equipment was designed to be portable, was fairly easy to do.

  The total number of casualties was shocking, and as a badly wounded marine died in Kelly’s arms, more than fifty sturdy civilians plodded up the hill. All of them wore homemade pack boards. One by one the Ortovs stepped up to the mountain of supplies that had been assembled for them, accepted their eighty- to one-hundred-pound loads, and made their way back down the hill. Even children could be seen through the drifting snow, bent nearly double under twenty-five-pound packs, as they followed the adults into the darkness.

  Finally, at exactly 0300, Kelly was forced to break her efforts off as the last loads of medical supplies were carried away. “It’s okay,” Lance Corporal Danny Tovo said, as the doctor stood. “My leg feels pretty good all things considered. Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll come looking, and once we find these bastards, all of them are going to die.”

  Kelly wanted to say that there had already been enough dying, but knew Tovo wouldn’t understand, and nodded. “Tell the chief I said to change that dressing every eight hours. Do you read me?”

  The marine grinned. His teeth looked unnaturally white in the glare produced by one of the pole-mounted lamps. “I read you five-by-five, ma’am.”

  Kelly wanted to cry but didn’t as Sumi helped her into her jacket, and the two of them marched downhill. The battle for Firebase 356 was over.

  PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  Christine Vanderveen was standing. She couldn’t see anything through the blindfold, but she felt the truck start to slow, and knew it was about to stop. Fisk-3 and Fisk-5 held the diplomat upright as the truck jerked to a halt. “Remember,” the clone called Alan said, as a side door slammed open. “Tell Nankool that the revolution is coming. Tell him that if the Senate will recognize the new government quickly, we’ll join the Confederacy.”

  Vanderveen had heard the argument at least a dozen times by then, and wasn’t likely to forget, but she nodded. “And,” Alan added softly, “please take care of yourself.”

  Before the diplomat could make any sort of response, she was literally lifted out of the truck, and placed on the sidewalk. The blindfold came off as the truck roared away. The bright sunlight caused her to blink. It was well into the workday by that time, so very few clones were out on the street, but those who were eyed the female as she hurried away.

  The orderly grid-style streets made it easy to navigate. So it was only a matter of minutes before Vanderveen located the hotel to which Nankool and his delegation had been assigned. As Vanderveen entered the lobby, she was planning to contact Nankool’s secretary and request an appointment. But that wasn’t to be as someone recognized the FSO-2, shouted her name, and triggered all sorts of attention.

  Within moments Vanderveen was hustled away and sequestered in a conference room, where she was questioned by a succession of security teams. Starting with the beings assigned to protect Nankool, who were followed by three stern-looking clones, including two Romos and a hard-eyed Nerov. The latter were the genetic line which, if Alan and Mary had told her the truth, hunted free breeders as if they were animals. So Vanderveen was careful to be as vague as possible regarding her abductors, what their motives were, and where she had been held. All of which frustrated the policemen, who were used to browbeating the citizenry into submission but couldn’t use such tactics on a foreign diplomat.

  That was when a second team of Confederacy security people arrived. They escorted the recently freed diplomat to one of the “clean rooms” that had been established a few floors above, where they intended to interrogate her all over again. Partially to clarify what had occurred, but mostly in an attempt to protect senior officials from a similar fate, especially the president himself.

  So they were far from happy when a mere FSO-2 refused to answer their questions until she could sit down with Nankool and give the chief executive a firsthand report on what she had learned. An assistant secretary of state tried to talk Vanderveen out of her plan, but she was insistent, and due to the nature of her relationship with Nankool the official thought it best to back off rather than risk the president’s ire.

  That was why three hours after her unexpected return, Vanderveen finally found herself standing outside the conference room that the president was using as his office, waiting for the undersecretary of defense to leave. And eventually she did. Vanderveen noticed that the retired colonel, whom some people referred to as “the Iron Lady,” closed the door gently, as if letting herself out of a hospital room. The two of them made eye contact, and Undersecretary Zimmer forced a smile. “Hello, Christine. . . . It’s good to have you back safe and sound. You should have seen the president’s face light up when the news came in. He actually smiled!”

  Vanderveen searched the older woman’s face. It was common knowledge that Nankool had been depressed ever since the attack on Earth. But the last comment seemed to hint at something more profound. “It’s that bad?”

  Zimmer was silent for a moment. Then, having come to some sort of conclusion, she gave a single nod. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. . . . Take it easy on him.” And with that she left.

  Nankool had always been a tower of strength, but never more than during the months the two of them had been held in the Ramanthian POW camp, and to see someone like Zimmer so obviously concerned about Nankool’s emotional well-being came as a shock. Vanderveen knocked on the door, heard a nearly inaudible “Come in,” and palmed the access plate. The barrier whispered softly as it slid out of the way.

  As Vanderveen entered Nankool sat with his back to the semidarkened room. He was staring out the only window at the angular cityscape beyond. “The bugs destroyed most of Chicago,” Nankool said flatly. “And all of Paris, Rio, and Sydney. All because of my stupidity. Gamma-014 was the bait, Christine. And I took it. Hook, line, and sinker. Now we’re bogged down in the Clone Hegemony, fighting on some slush ball, while the bugs rape Earth. People are fighting back though, killing as many chits as they can, waiting for a fleet that doesn’t exist. That can’t exist, unless I break my word, and
pull our forces out of clone-held space. And that’s what Zimmer thinks I should do. Hell, that’s what most of my staff thinks I should do. What about you Christine? What do you think?”

  Vanderveen thought about her mother, and wanted to ask about San Francisco, but held the question back as Nankool turned to face her. Vanderveen was shocked by what she saw. Though once overweight, Nankool had shed at least thirty pounds during the months spent in captivity. But the slimmed-down version was nothing compared with the way he looked now. The president’s eyes stared out at Vanderveen from blue-black caverns. His nose was like a blade that divided his gaunt face into halves as a clawlike hand came up to rub a furrowed brow. “I think you made the right decision,” Vanderveen said, desperately hoping that she was right. “And based on what I learned over the last few days, there’s a very real chance that you could cement something better than an alliance with the Hegemony. Because if certain things play out the way I expect them to, and if we take appropriate steps, it might be possible to incorporate the Hegemony into the Confederacy. Which would result in full rather than qualified military cooperation. And that could turn things around! Or at least level the playing field.”

  Nankool’s cadaverous face seemed to brighten slightly. “Really?” he inquired hopefully. “I could use some good news. . . . Tell me more.”

  So Vanderveen told Nankool about Alan, Mary, and the free breeders who lived under the city. Then she told him about the revolution, what it could mean, and how the Confederacy could take advantage of it. But as she spoke, the diplomat saw the hope disappear from Nankool’s eyes and a frown appear. So as her presentation came to its conclusion, Vanderveen already knew what the president’s decision would be, even if she didn’t know why.