When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  There was a loud roar as the engine came to life, followed by a screech as the tires fought for traction, and the vehicle shot forward. The Ramanthian officer was just turning toward the van when the vehicle struck him and threw his body high into the air. It was still falling when Tappas plowed into the troopers beyond and skidded to a stop. Foley hit the door release, and it slid out of the way. “Kill them!” the navy officer yelled as his boots hit the ground. “Kill all of them!”

  There were six brig rats in the van, plus two slightly mystified sentries, all of whom opened fire on the Ramanthians. And, having been taken by surprise, a dozen aliens went down before their comrades could return fire. But there were at least thirty aliens, so it might have been over then, except that the seemingly helpless civilians weren’t all that helpless.

  A woman yelled an order, and the civilians charged. Five or six staggered and fell, but the Ramanthians were forced to divide their fire, and that made the crucial difference. Two brig rats had been killed by the time all the combatants collided. Sheets of blood flew as one of the alien noncoms made use of his power-assisted armor to rip a man’s arm off. But the same Ramanthian was brought down a few moments later and dispatched with a captured rifle. That was when Tappas pointed at the transport. “Look! They’re getting ready to lift!”

  Foley saw that the sailor was correct. Vapor outgassed as the transport’s engines began to spool up. Having seen the Ramanthian troops cut down by a group of animals, the ship’s pilot was pulling out. That was fine with Foley, but one of the civilians took offense. “Oh, no you don’t,” the man said, and ran toward the van.

  Tappas had left the engine running, so all the civilian had to do was put the vehicle in drive and take off. The van bucked wildly as it rolled over three or four dead bodies, swerved to avoid a derelict car, and began to pick up speed. Then it was on course, headed straight for the transport’s ramp, which was in the process of being withdrawn. The vehicle bounced as it hit, but still found enough traction to run up the ramp, and bury itself in the open hatch. It was too big to pass through the rectangular opening. And the driver was trapped inside. But the additional weight caused the ship to wobble, and while the pilot struggled to compensate, one of the civilians tossed a grenade in under the van. It was an act of bravery that cost the woman dearly as the resulting explosion triggered two more, the transport rolled over, and crashed on top of her. There was a loud whump as flames enveloped the ship, and the battle was over. “Damn . . .” Foley said respectfully. “That woman had balls.”

  “Not exactly,” a man with a beard said. “But Marcy is with her husband now. . . . My name’s Utley. Marvin Utley. And you are?”

  A huge paw enveloped Foley’s hand as the civilians began to execute wounded Ramanthians. One of them had taken possession of the officer’s sword. Blood flew as the blade rose and fell. “Lieutenant Foley,” the officer replied automatically.

  Utley nodded approvingly. “The Legion or the Marine Corps?”

  “Navy.”

  “Well, you and your boys did one helluva job, Lieutenant. Most of us are members of the resistance,” Utley explained. “The bastards captured the whole bunch of us night before last, sentenced us to death, and brought us here for execution. It’s all part of a calculated effort to intimidate the population. They like to fly prisoners to remote locations, kill them, and leave the bodies. It makes for a pretty effective warning. What were you doing here anyway?”

  “I’m glad we were able to help,” Foley replied evasively. And was surprised to discover that he meant it. “We’d better get the hell out of here, though. Because a quick-reaction force may be on the way.”

  “You’re right about that,” Utley said fervently, before turning to yell at the rest of his group. “Take their weapons and follow Lieutenant Foley!” And that was the moment when a new and rather unlikely guerrilla leader was born.

  Even though all of the traffic on the two-lane road was headed east, and vehicles that ran out of gas were routinely pushed off the highway by the motorists behind them, the densely packed mass of vehicles was traveling at no more than one or two miles per hour when the Ramanthian fighters attacked. They came out of the sun, just as they had been trained to do, and swerved back and forth as they followed the serpentine highway west toward the cities from which the people below were trying to escape.

  Vehicles exploded, rear-ended each other, and ran off the road as energy bolts tore them apart. Margaret Vanderveen was driving, and managed to stop the truck without hitting the car in front of her, but could do little more than close her eyes and pray as the alien fighters passed overhead.

  Then the Ramanthians were gone. It wasn’t the first time that the slow-moving column had been savaged. Margaret couldn’t remember how many attacks there had been as she opened her eyes to discover that she and her three companions were still alive. Others weren’t so fortunate, however, as could be seen from the flames that enveloped three vehicles farther up the road. Horns were honking, and people were shouting orders at each other, as the cars just ahead of or behind burning wrecks struggled to put a few feet of space between the conflagration and whatever they were driving. Margaret turned to the maintenance man seated next to her. “Okay, Thomas,” Margaret said. “You win. We’ll take the next turnoff.”

  Lisa Qwan, and the robot named John, were in the backseat. Both were familiar with the ongoing debate, and neither chose to intervene. All of the humans agreed it would be necessary to abandon the truck and trailer at some point, but the question had always been “when?” Margaret favored staying on the road as long as possible, because she felt they could make better progress on the road, even at a slow crawl.

  Benson understood that point of view but felt highway travel was too dangerous. Especially given attacks from the air. That perspective was reinforced by the sight of the still-smoldering vehicles that a group of volunteers was pushing off the road. There would be no burial for the blackened bodies that remained inside of them. Just the slow-motion decay Mother Nature provided to all of her creations.

  It took the better part of an hour for the mob of cars and trucks to get under way again, but once they did, Margaret and her party were on the lookout for a turnoff. Any turnoff, so they could get off by themselves and unload their supplies without attracting the wrong sort of attention. Because while only a minority of the refugees were thieves, they were a dangerous minority, and would happily prey on anyone they could.

  The opportunity to part company with the metal river came an hour later, as a dirt road appeared on the right, and Margaret put the wheel over. “Here we go,” she said. “For better or for worse.”

  “Let’s stop after half a mile or so,” Benson suggested. “And put on a show of force. The truck, trailer, and contents are so valuable that there’s a high probability someone will try to follow us.”

  Margaret knew it was true and felt a knot form in her stomach as the truck continued to rattle along. There were evergreens on both sides of the road, which judging from their height, had been planted fifteen years earlier. “Okay,” Benson said, as the truck-trailer combination came to a halt. “Everybody grab a gun, and make sure it’s loaded. You know the kind of people we’re dealing with. So if it comes to that, show no mercy. They won’t. Agreed?”

  Unlike some military androids, John’s programming included specific prohibitions against the taking of human lives, so that left only three of them to face down whoever chose to pursue them, and that was downright scary. There was reason to worry, because even as the cloud of dust generated by the truck-trailer combination began to blow away, another one appeared behind them.

  “Here they come,” Benson said grimly, as he pumped a shell into the shotgun’s chamber. “Remember, if I fire, you fire, and don’t stop until they’re dead.”

  What the burly maintenance man didn’t say was what the rest of the party should do if he were killed? But maybe that was obvious. They could fight, or they could die.

 
Because Benson had no intention of making his way down the middle of the road so the oncoming thieves could simply run him over, he walked next to it instead. So when the dusty yellow cab came to a stop, and two men got out of it, Benson addressed them from behind a thin screen of trees. “Get back in the car,” Benson ordered in a loud, clear voice. “And do it now.”

  Both men carried hunting rifles and turned toward the sound. One of them had a narrow face, hollow cheeks, and a two-day growth of black stubble. He was dressed in an olive drab T-shirt and filthy jeans. He smiled engagingly. “Hey, take it easy, pops. . . . It ain’t like that. Larry and I saw you turn off and figured you could use some help. Especially with two women and all.”

  “Thanks,” Benson said, grimly. “But no thanks. Now get in the car and turn it around.”

  “Or what?” Larry demanded belligerently. He was wearing a blue bandana on his head, had a sheath knife dangling from the lanyard he wore around his neck, and sported knee-length shorts worn over a pair of scuffed combat boots. Larry was holding a rifle with his left hand, but as his right hand began to drift toward the pistol located at the small of his back, a shot rang out. The .300 Magnum bullet struck Larry between the shoulder blades, blew a hole through his bony chest, and hit a tree to Benson’s right.

  As the dead body continued to fall forward, the first man attempted to bring his weapon up and took half a load of double-ought buck from Benson. He dropped to his knees and appeared to be praying when the maintenance man shot him again. Blood sprayed the dirt and immediately began to dry.

  Margaret stepped out onto the other side of the road at that point, still carrying a scope-mounted rifle. She looked pale, and Benson understood why. “You did a good job, ma’am,” the maintenance man said gruffly, as he stepped over one of the bodies. “The only problem being that you were firing in my direction. But all’s well that ends well.”

  Margaret didn’t answer. She threw up instead. Qwan led her employer off to get cleaned up, while John stripped both dead men of potentially useful items, and Benson fired up a chain saw. It made quick work of two trees and it wasn’t long before both were lying across the road. Not an impossible barrier by any means, but one calculated to slow pursuers down, and buy the group some additional time. Strangely enough, it was Margaret’s idea to drag the bodies over and prop them up against the fallen trees. A clear message if there ever was one!

  Then, encouraged by the fact that there hadn’t been further signs of pursuit, Margaret and her companions reentered the truck and continued on their way. Having pored over all of their maps, the socialite had identified a hiking trail that cut across the road roughly two miles ahead. If they followed it toward the northeast, they would eventually connect with a second trail, which would take them to a point only a few miles from their ultimate destination. And sure enough, it wasn’t long before they saw the trail sign they were looking for, and Benson braked to a stop.

  “Okay,” Benson said, as they prepared to get out. “The horses won’t be able to carry all the stuff we have—so let’s sort everything into two piles. The ‘gotta have it to stay alive pile’—and the ‘it would be nice to have pile.’ We’ll load the most important stuff first and add more if we have room. Any objections?”

  There weren’t any objections, so they piled out, and work began. By unspoken agreement, it was Margaret’s job to coax the horses out of the twenty-eight-foot trailer, check the animals over, and prepare them for the trail, an activity that was likely to come as a shock to the pampered beasts since they were intended for riding and had never been used as pack animals.

  The most spirited, and skittish, horse was the Arabian that belonged to Margaret’s daughter Christine. As the society matron worked to put one of Benson’s makeshift pack saddles on the mare, she took comfort from the fact that her daughter was with President Nankool and therefore safe from harm.

  Meanwhile the other three sorted through everything they had, remembering that each horse would only be able to carry about one hundred thirty pounds of gear. That, plus the additional three hundred pounds of tools and supplies the humans and John could carry, added up to slightly over eight hundred pounds of freight.

  So there were tough choices to make, and some arguments as a result, but there was general agreement where weapons, ammo, and medical supplies were concerned. The same was true of nonperishable food, although Qwan was forced to give up some of the canned items she was fond of, and the suitcase full of beauty products that Margaret wanted to take was voted down. Benson, by contrast, was allowed to keep almost all of his carefully selected hand tools and hardware, plus a quantity of liquor, for what he called “medicinal purposes.” The rest of the carefully packed loads consisted of tents, tarps, and kitchen equipment. Clothes were limited to three outfits each. Except for John—who could go without if necessary.

  It was evening by the time everything was ready, and rather than tackle the trail in the dark, the decision was made to stay where they were until morning. So a fire was built, and the humans gorged themselves on canned food, while John stood sentry duty. Something the android could do all night without experiencing fatigue.

  Margaret thought it would be difficult to sleep that night, but she surprised herself by dozing off almost immediately, in spite of the fact that she had killed a man earlier that day. And when she awoke, it was to the smell of canned hash frying over the fire, and coffee perking in a fire-blackened pot.

  Margaret discovered that she was sore from sleeping on a thin backpacking mat, but otherwise fine, as she set about caring for the horses. It was an endless task even under the best of circumstances, but was made even more demanding by the need to load and unload the Arabians every day, plus find something for the animals to graze on.

  As the three of them sat down to eat, Benson suggested they destroy the items they couldn’t take with them. But Margaret refused. “People are desperate,” she said soberly. “Who knows? The extra supplies could save a few lives. Let’s put them in the back of the truck and leave it unlocked. We’re all in this together.”

  Benson knew that the supplies could just as easily fall into the hands of people who didn’t deserve any charity, but chose not to say anything. So everything they couldn’t carry went into the truck. And an hour later they were gone. More exposed in some ways, but safer in others, as the forest closed around them.

  The succeeding days were hard, even harder than Margaret had expected. For even though she was in better shape than many her age, Margaret was sixty-one years old and used to a life of privilege. And it was hard work leading an often-recalcitrant horse all day, carrying a pack, and battling rugged terrain. But Margaret became tougher with each passing hour as her body grew stronger.

  There were worse things than the rigors of the trail, however. Like the day when a loud thrumming noise was heard, and a Ramanthian shuttle passed directly above them before they could hide, but, inexplicably, continued on its way.

  And there were three encounters with other groups of refugees, one of which involved a party of twelve heavily armed men who could have easily taken everything they had. Fortunately, all of them were would-be resistance fighters, on their way to join forces with a group called the Earth Liberation Brigade, which was determined to throw the bugs off the planet.

  But the moments all of them dreaded most were when the trail passed remote homes, a large number of which were clearly occupied, or crossed highways, which was even worse. On one occasion it had been necessary to wait until nine in the evening for a seemingly endless Ramanthian convoy to pass. Then, like ghosts in the night, the foursome led their pack animals across the pavement and into the woods on the other side.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the group came up over the saddle between two hills and were able to look down into Deer Valley. Something they did with great care, having learned how important stealth could be over the last week or so. John took charge of the horses while the rest of them elbowed their way forward to look
down from the cover of some sun-warmed rocks.

  There had been a gold mine on the property hundreds of years earlier. After that played out, the valley had been used as a cattle ranch, a private estate, a bed-and-breakfast, a religious retreat, and a hunting preserve, before turning into a private estate once again when Charles and Margaret Vanderveen purchased it twenty-one years earlier.

  At that point the spread included a sprawling two-story ranch house, a guest cottage, an elevated water tank, an old barn, and the new stable Margaret had commissioned two years before. But as Margaret looked down into the valley, she saw little more than fire-blackened rubble where the house and barn had once stood. There was no way to know how the fire had been started or by whom. The obvious suspects were Ramanthians and/or looters.

  It was a terrible blow, especially after working so hard to get there, and Margaret felt a rising sense of despair as Qwan put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Margaret,” Benson said, as he eyed the valley through a pair of binoculars. “It looks like the place was looted. Wait a minute. . . . What have we got here? Kids, that’s what, a couple dozen of them.”

  Margaret wiped some of the tears away with the back of her hand. “Children? No adults?”

  “Nope,” Benson replied. “Not so far as I can see. Here, take a look.”

  So Margaret accepted the glasses and eyed what remained of the family retreat. There had been a caretaker, of course, but there was no sign of him, which was certainly understandable given the circumstances.

  From what she could see it appeared that some of the children had made themselves at home in the guest cottage, with the rest living in the stable. The oldest looked like she was fifteen or sixteen and the youngest about four or five. “Come on,” Margaret said, as she backed away. “We need to get down there. . . . Those children need our help.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say something like that,” Benson grumbled. But he came nevertheless—and was right beside her when Margaret made her way up a dirt road and onto her property. A ragged-looking teenage girl was positioned on the cottage’s front porch. The youngster pointed a .22 rifle at Margaret as she and her companions made their way up a gentle slope. The teenager was flanked by twin boys and a blond girl with a runny nose. “We don’t have anything worth stealing,” the girl said tightly. “So go away.”