When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  “Good one, sir!” Deker said approvingly, as he began to climb higher. “Got any grenades?”

  “Two,” Santana replied, fumbling for them.

  “That should do it,” Deker said cheerfully, as he arrived next to the turret. “But mind the chit, sir. . . . He’s in the way!”

  The two of them were so close that Santana was able to reach out, grab the dead Ramanthian’s harness, and pull him to one side. That opened a hole large enough to accept both grenades. They were still falling into the compartment below, when Deker took to the air, hoping to put as much distance between himself and the Gantha as he could. The ensuing explosion lifted the turret off the top of the tank, sent a gout of flames into the air, and produced a wave of hot air that washed around both legionnaires. Deker made a perfect landing, absorbed most of the impact with his mechanical knees, and was about to reenter the fray when a frantic call was heard.

  “Alpha Six! This is Bravo Three-Three! The general is missing! I can’t find him anywhere. Over.”

  “What?” Santana demanded, incredulously. “What do you mean you can’t find him? He was strapped to your back! Over.”

  “I mean the bastard bailed out,” Shaley answered angrily. “And I can’t find him. Over.”

  “Alpha Six to Alpha Company,” Santana said. “Form on me! Alpha One-Four will provide security while we search for the general. Execute. Out.”

  Meanwhile, as the surviving members of Alpha Company gathered to look for the allied commander, General Akoto was deep beneath the city of Yal-Am, preparing to deliver the Kiyo—the killing stroke. Because everything, including the retreat up over Tow-Tok Pass, and the way the ongoing battle was being fought had been leading up to this: the moment when the allies would enter the killing ground and give themselves over to the final slaughter. Thanks to massive incompetence on the part of their military leaders, the process had taken much longer than anticipated, thereby extending the amount of time available for the purpose of conquering Earth. Thus, the most important aspect of Akoto’s mission had already been accomplished.

  The general was too old for active service in the minds of many, as was apparent from the age spots on his chitin, and the many maladies for which the doctors were treating him. But there was nothing wrong with his mind, which was sword bright, and as keen as a thrice-honed blade. This was why he knew that, even as a seemingly unstoppable juggernaut rolled toward the depopulated city of Yal-Am, a unique opportunity lay before him. Rather than simply stalling the allies, as the old warrior had originally been ordered to do, it was his intention to defeat them! More than that, to drive the degenerates back into space—where others could deal with them.

  The navy would have to do its part, of course. But the hypercom call had been sent, and even as Akoto’s servant strapped his sword to the old warrior’s back, a battle group was emerging from hyperspace. Soon, within a matter of hours, all of the allied warships presently in orbit around Gamma-014 would be fighting for their lives.

  While that battle took place, Akoto, plus ten thousand heavily armed Ramanthian regulars, were going to pour up out of the natural caverns located below the city of Yal-Am and consume the five thousand allied troops presently rushing to their deaths. Because exhausted from the battle just fought—the badly outnumbered humans would be easy meat. And Akoto was known for a hearty appetite. The warrior took pleasure in his joke—and that was the moment when the real battle began.

  Because the Ramanthians had been swept from the field of battle, Alpha Company was pretty much on its own, as the legionnaires completed the third, and what would have to be final, search for General-453. Or, failing that, what remained of his body. But there was no sign of the officer so far, and Santana was just about to wrap up the effort, when a voice came over the division push—a rarely used com channel that was reserved for extreme emergencies since it had the effect of smothering communications at the battalion, company, and platoon level. “This is General-453,” the voice proclaimed. “I was held prisoner until fifteen minutes ago. . . . The man who led the assault is a renegade who calls himself Colonel Six. Seize the imposter and place him under arrest! I will arrive in Yal-Am shortly. Out.”

  The announcement was like a bolt out of the blue. It seemed that the Seebo who had reformulated allied strategy, and led the successful assault against the Ramanthians, had been none other than the clone Santana had been ordered to track down! Knowing that his impersonation would have to end, he had taken his leave just short of the final goal.

  That was shocking enough, but what took place over the next few minutes was even more so. It began with a sudden flurry of confused radio traffic, soon followed by frantic calls for help, and a storm of gunfire. Santana ordered his unit forward, but hadn’t traveled more than a hundred feet when Kobbi came over the regimental push. His voice was calm but urgent. “It was a trap! Thousands of Ramanthians were hiding underground. The 1st REC will fall back toward the west. Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, will escort the wounded. Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, will provide covering fire—”

  Santana overrode the transmission to give orders at that point. By repositioning his remaining quad, and surrounding it with Trooper IIs, the cavalry officer was able to create an island of steel in the middle of the horrific battlefield. And that was important, because as the badly mauled allied troops streamed back along both flanks, the company could keep the pursuing aliens from overrunning them. As other units fell in next to the legionnaires, what had been an island was transformed into a defensive wall—a barrier that fell back every ten minutes or so, giving more survivors an opportunity to escape, and denying the bugs the slaughter they had been looking forward to. But many of the cyborgs had run out of ammunition by then, as had the foot soldiers, which meant that orderly though the retreat was, it couldn’t hold. That reality became horribly clear as the allies were pushed back through what had been their rear lines, where unit cohesion began to break down, and everything came apart.

  Official records would eventually show that General Kobbi attempted to call in an orbital bombardment on his own position, hoping to kill everyone in the area, but couldn’t find a navy ship that wasn’t already fighting for its life. Total chaos ensued as more than three thousand allied troops and civilian volunteers began the long, cold march up over Tow-Tok Pass, toward the bases beyond. The battle of Yal-Am had been lost.

  15

  Allies are enemies who intend to attack you later.

  —Triad Hiween Doma-Sa

  In a speech to the Sa clan

  Standard year 2841

  PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  The last three days had been hellish. And as Alpha Clone Antonio-Seven entered the Emergency Operations Center normally reserved for natural disasters, he felt sick to his stomach. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a general uprising was taking place. Not just on Alpha-001, but if reports could be believed, on all of the Hegemony’s most important planets. Millions of formerly law-abiding citizens had gone on strike, and with no work to keep them occupied, had flooded out onto the streets, where the treacherous Trotskis and Fisks were waiting to exhort them.

  That was when the mass demonstrations began, some of which had evolved into riots, as the Romos and Nerovs tried to disperse the crowds. The riots produced casualties on both sides. But when a worker was injured, or killed, rebel leaders referred to that individual as a “victim.” Whereas dead Nerovs were hung from lampposts and their dead bodies pelted with rocks.

  Of course, Antonio knew some of that treatment was due to the fact that so many Nerovs had participated in the death squads his “brother” Pietro had conceived of as a way to “keep the lid on.” The strategy had been successful to some extent. Except that now, in the wake of all that had taken place, Antonio had come to realize that it had been a mistake to push the discontent deeper underground, where it could fester and spread. It was a key lesson but one that had come too late.

  The mood within the heavily secured Emergency Op
erations Center was somber, which made sense given the nature of the data that continued to stream in, and what Antonio could see with his own eyes as he sat down between his brothers. Even though Marcus had recently been the recipient of new lab-grown lungs, he was having trouble with them for psychological reasons, and couldn’t stop coughing. And, in spite of all that was at risk, Pietro came across as bored. “Okay,” Antonio began. “What have we got?”

  The briefer was a social engineer named Santo-212. “The situation remains critical,” the Santo said, “as you can see from the incoming video.”

  The curvilinear walls were covered with a mosaic of video screens, hundreds of them, most of which bore bad news. Everywhere Antonio looked, he could see demonstrators on the move, bodies lying in the streets, and every kind of chaos. “That much is obvious,” the Alpha Clone said impatiently. “The question is what, if anything, can be done about it? Should we bring the Seebos in to restore order?”

  Santo-212 was a handsome man with black hair, large, expressive eyes, and an unwrinkled countenance. Up until then his entire life had been dedicated to keeping everything the way it was, even though instability had been introduced into the system by the founder herself, as a way to prevent the perfect society from becoming overly complacent. “No, sir,” the social engineer replied confidently. “Though excellent warriors, the Seebos feel an ingrained loyalty to Hegemony as a whole, rather than to its leadership as individuals. Which means any attempt to use them against the general population could have unpredictable results. In fact, depending on circumstances, they could turn against the government.”

  “All right, then what would you suggest?” Pietro wanted to know.

  “I have a plan, sir,” Santo answered eagerly. “And it starts here!”

  The social engineer pushed a button on a remote, and the picture on the largest screen dissolved from a demonstration on the far side of Alpha-001 to a shot of Bio-Storage Building 516. Like his brothers, Antonio was well acquainted with both the structure, and its importance. The low one-story building had been attacked more than once over the last few days, and as an airborne surveillance camera circled 516, the Alpha Clones could see that hundreds of unrecovered bodies lay in the streets around the repository. Some wore uniforms, but most were dressed in civilian attire. The corpses had begun to decay and were covered with brown rot birds. Most of the scavengers had already eaten their fill, and could barely lift off as the flying camera interrupted their feast.

  And there, at the very center of the grisly tableau, was the building itself. Because of its symbolic importance, 516 occupied an open area, far enough away from other buildings so that the police had been unable to fire down onto it, or advance using surrounding structures for cover. The southwestern corner of the repository had been blackened by fire. Every exposed surface was riddled with bullet holes and a wrecked assault boat could be seen on top of the much-disputed roof. “The revolution started in Building 516, Santo added grimly. “And, based on what we’ve been able to learn, rebel leader Trotski-Four is still there, along with a force of two dozen other criminals. I propose that we launch a final attack on the building and either take this Trotski prisoner or kill him. The assault will be televised, and once the disaffected workers see their leader go down, the uprising will end.”

  Marcus started to speak, paused to cough, and held up a hand. Finally, when the coughing fit was over, the Alpha Clone managed to get the words out. “And what about other leaders? Need I remind you that all of the Trotskis look alike?”

  “There were only 1,112 at the beginning of the uprising,” Santo replied confidently, “and according to the statistics maintained by my department, 998 of them have been killed over the past few days. That leaves only 114 individuals to deal with. And, because 56 of them are in prison, that takes us down to a pool of only 58 people, 52 of whom are living on planets other than this one.”

  “But what about further damage to the facility?” Pietro wanted to know. “As well as the DNA stored there?”

  “That’s a possibility,” Santo admitted soberly. “Especially if the rebels carry out their threats to deactivate the freezers. But the backup facility on Alpha-002 is being guarded by Romos—so the lines are secure.”

  There was a long moment of silence after that, as everyone looked toward Antonio and waited to see what he would say. The Alpha Clone stared at the image up on the screen as he wrestled with the variables. Would the proposal work? And even if it did, would the additional deaths be worth it? Because even though the original Antonio and he were different people, both had the same DNA and common tendencies. One of which was a genuine affection for the people they were supposed to lead.

  But in the final analysis, order was superior to chaos, or so it seemed to Antonio. “I say, ‘yes,’ ” the Alpha Clone announced. “But I sense we’re at a tipping point, a moment when either side could win. So this had better work.”

  “It will,” Santo said confidently. “Just leave everything to me.”

  Having successfully negotiated the military alliance on Alpha-001, and been caught there when the Ramanthians invaded Earth, Nankool and his staff were preparing to depart for Algeron when the revolution began. A development that was none of their business in one way, but all-important in another, because the Hegemony wasn’t going to be much of an ally unless the government was stable. So, over the objections of his security people, Nankool insisted on staying a few more days in hopes that the situation would stabilize. But now, as the president and his staff sat among dozens of half-packed cargo modules, even more bad news was in the offing.

  And, like it or not, Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly was the person who was forced to deliver it. The legionnaire had returned from Gamma-014 only the day before, and looked the way he felt, which was exhausted. Those present included the undersecretary of defense, Zimmer, the assistant secretary of state, Tumbo, and the Confederacy’s ambassador to the Hegemony, Marcy Cowles. All of them listened intently as Booly spoke.

  “A report from General Kobbi just arrived from Gamma- 014,” the military officer said glumly. “General-453 successfully led allied forces up over a strategic mountain pass. But, while attacking a city called Yal-Am, they ran into a trap. Unbeknownst to General-453, General Akoto had a reserve of some ten thousand troops hidden in caverns under Yal-Am, and as our forces started to enter the city, the chits boiled up out of the ground. General-453 is missing in action, and assumed to be dead, while what remains of our army is retreating to the west with the Ramanthians in hot pursuit.”

  “But how can that be?” Nankool demanded incredulously, “We own the sky! Surely our ships can pound the bugs to paste!”

  “I’m afraid things have changed,” Booly reported grimly. “You’ll recall that once Gamma-014 had been secured, we withdrew most of our ships to protect the inner planets, and left only a handful in orbit around 014. So, when a Ramanthian battle group dropped hyper about twenty hours ago, our ships were outnumbered two to one. Although they were able to inflict significant casualties on the bugs, there was never any doubt as to the eventual outcome, and the surviving vessels were forced to withdraw into hyperspace or face certain annihilation.”

  The news elicited a chorus of dismayed comments and some heartfelt sobs as the reality of the situation began to sink in. “So it was timed?” Zimmer inquired, her eyes bright with anger.

  “Yes,” Booly confirmed. “As General Akoto’s troops came up out of the ground in Yal-Am, the Ramanthian ships were dropping hyper.”

  “That kind of coordination would have been impossible prior to the advent of hypercom technology,” Nankool observed darkly. “It seems as if the bastards are always one step ahead of us.”

  “So what’s going to happen to our troops?” Tumbo wanted to know. He was a burly man, with close-cropped gray hair, and a broad moonlike face. Everyone present knew that one of his sons was a major in the Marine Corps. Presently on Gamma-014—and right in the thick of it.

  “They
’re cut off,” Booly answered grimly. “And we lack the means to reinforce them quickly enough to prevent what will almost certainly be a slaughter if they are forced to surrender.”

  Nankool nodded. He had firsthand knowledge of what could happen to those who surrendered. “We can’t abandon them,” the politician said steadfastly. “I won’t allow it.”

  “So, what’s the solution?” Cowles inquired hopefully.

  “The Ramanthians made effective use of hypercom technology, and so can we,” Booly replied. “All of you are acquainted with my wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, and her company. If you approve, I’m going to ask Maylo to coordinate an effort in which civilian boats and ships will land on Gamma-014 and evacuate our forces. Anything that has both a hyperdrive and a willing owner will be pressed into service.”

  “But they’ll be slaughtered!” Cowles objected.

  “Some will be,” Booly admitted sadly. “But, if there’s enough ships, and they drop hyper about the same time, the bugs won’t have enough resources to chase all of them.”

  There was a long silence as the group contemplated the general’s words. It was Nankool who spoke first. “It’s a desperate strategy, but unless one of you has a better alternative, then we’ll have to go for it.” There was no response, which caused Nankool to nod. “That’s what I thought. . . . General, if you would be so kind as to contact your wife, the government would be most grateful.”

  “I will,” Booly promised. “And we’ll work out the details as quickly possible.”

  There might have been more discussion, except that the door to the conference room slammed open at that point, and Christine Vanderveen attempted to enter. Two members of the president’s security detail grabbed the diplomat, and were about to hustle the young woman back outside, when Nankool spotted the familiar face. “Christine? Is that you?”