When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  Kelly was awake—but very uncomfortable. Her bladder was full, so she needed to pee, but was reluctant to leave the relative warmth of the makeshift sleeping bag that she shared with Six. He, in typical male fashion, was not only sound asleep but snoring gently. A quick check with a flashlight revealed that while the tarp over their heads was drooping a bit under the weight of accumulated snow, it was in no danger of collapsing. So there was no need to get up and deal with that.

  But the doctor knew she wouldn’t be able to get any more rest unless she got up, made her way out of the partially screened “room,” and down a short passageway to a freezing-cold closet reserved for her use. Careful to protect the integrity of the air pocket that surrounded Six, the navy officer rolled out from under the blankets and fumbled for her boots. Once those were on, all she had to do was slip her arms into her parka in order to be fully clothed.

  Then, with a blob of light from the hand torch to guide her, Kelly made her way back to what had been designated as “the ladies’ room.” It was a euphemism for a storage closet with a bucket in it. It isn’t fair, Kelly thought to herself, as she lowered her pants. Men don’t have to do this.

  Three minutes later the officer was busy fastening her parka when a voice came from the darkness three feet away from her. “Excuse me,” Millar said softly as he hovered four feet off the floor. “Are you Lieutenant Kira Kelly?”

  Kelly reacted with an involuntary jerk and took a full step backwards. “Who are you?” the doctor demanded, as her torch came on.

  “Turn that thing off!” the recon ball whispered urgently. “Or you’ll get me killed!”

  Kelly, who had seen the cyborg’s markings by that time, did as she was told. The first question to cross her mind, which had to do with whether the recon ball had seen her go to the bathroom, was silly given the circumstances, so she put it aside. “I repeat,” Kelly whispered. “Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Mitch Millar,” came the reply. “I was sent to find you.”

  Kelly felt her spirits soar only to have them crash again. Here was the rescue that she and Sumi had been hoping for! But what would that mean for Six? Kelly was a doctor, so she was well aware of the fact that even though it isn’t logical, some hostages come to have feelings of loyalty toward their captors. Had that happened to her? Yes, the analytical part of her brain said that it had. Did knowing that make her any less concerned for her lover’s well being? No, not really. “That’s wonderful!” Kelly exclaimed, in what she hoped was a convincing fashion.

  “Yes, it is,” Millar responded carefully. “Although it’s only fair to tell you that the unit I belong to is more than a hundred miles away. It may be a while before we can actually free you.”

  Kelly felt a sense of relief, knew that was stupid, and silently rebuked herself. “Of course,” she said out loud. “I understand.”

  “Good,” the recon ball replied. “How about the second hostage? Is he okay?”

  Sumi was angry with Kelly for sleeping with Six, the doctor knew that, but saw no reason to discuss it. Not unless she absolutely had to. “Yes,” Kelly answered succinctly. “Hospital Corpsman Sumi is fine.”

  “Excellent,” Millar said sincerely. “My CO will be happy to hear it. Here. . . . Take this.”

  Kelly heard a whirring sound as the scout’s spherical body extruded a skeletal tool arm. The disk that was held in his grasper was about a quarter of an inch thick and two inches across. “It’s a tracker,” the cyborg explained, as the woman took the device. “Keep it on your body at all times.”

  “I will,” Kelly promised, as she tucked the disk away. “Thank you.”

  “Keep my visit to yourself,” the scout instructed. “We’ll catch up as quickly as we can.” Then, having generated no more than a gentle humming sound, the recon ball disappeared.

  It was pitch-black inside the tiny observation post (OP), the temperature was a face-numbing ten degrees below zero, and more than a thousand Ramanthians were marching along the highway headed east, toward the fleeing allies and Yal-Am beyond. The nearest aliens were no more than fifteen feet away, so close Santana could hear the ominous scrape-thump of their perfectly synchronized footsteps, the rattle of unsecured equipment, and occasional bursts of click-speech as the ever-vigilant noncoms worked to keep the weary soldiers on the move.

  More than that, the legionnaire could smell the unmistakable mixture of wing wax, chitin polish, and gun oil that was the olfactory hallmark of Ramanthian soldiers everywhere. And by peering out through a hole in the makeshift barricade his company had erected the evening before, the officer could see the enemy formation on his HUD—thanks to the night-vision capability that was built into his helmet. The column was four troopers across and very tight. Tighter than a human formation would be under similar circumstances.

  But could the bugs see him? Apparently not, given the way they continued to stream past the OP, on their way to a certain confrontation with the lead elements of Kobbi’s column. That could be attributed to Santana’s having chosen to staff the OP with bio bods, while keeping a quick-reaction force comprised of relatively “hot” cyborgs out on the hilltop, where they could be called upon if necessary. The legionnaire had been summoned by Sergeant Pimm, and the tough no-nonsense marine sergeant had the good sense to keep his jarheads hidden as lead elements of the enemy force trudged past his position.

  The question, to Santana’s mind at least, was why the bugs had been ordered to attack the allied column? Because even though General-453’s army had been badly mauled at Yal-Am, they were still capable of defeating a force such as the one in front of him, and rather decisively, too. Unless the real purpose of the impending confrontation was to stall the retreating column—which would make sense if Akoto’s forces had been unable to overtake the fugitives from the east. Yes, that was logical, and as the last of the bugs shuffled past, Santana gave Pimm a pat on the back. “Well done, Sergeant. I’ll send a squad forward to relieve you in about thirty minutes or so. Unless we get new orders. Which wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “We’ll be here,” the heavily swathed noncom said bleakly, wondering if he would ever be warm again.

  Private Ivan Lupo’s cargo bay was crammed with sleeping legionnaires, and the hot, muggy air was thick with the stench of unwashed socks, as Santana closed the hatch behind him. There was a communal groan as a blast of frigid air forced its way inside. That was followed by an apology when someone saw who it was, and the officer said, “As you were.” It was difficult for the legionnaire to find places to plant his feet without stepping on someone’s body as he made his way to the tiny cubicle that was supposed to function as the platoon leader’s office in the field. Except that Lieutenant Amoyo was dead and wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

  The purpose of the unannounced visit was to get on the quad’s long-range com set and warn Kobbi. It took the better part of fifteen minutes to talk a succession of protective officers into putting the call through. During that time, Santana was forced to remove layers of clothes in order to deal with what felt like a tropical environment but was actually chilly by normal standards. Finally, a clearly sleepy Kobbi was heard. “This is Six-One. . . . What have you got?”

  So Santana told him, and as he did so, the company commander could imagine the look on the little general’s face. Because when Kobbi was working a problem, it was like a dog attacking a bone. And, by the time the cavalry officer’s report was complete, the general knew what he wanted to do.

  Dawn was in the offing as Force Commander Ofay led his troops up a long incline toward the certain glory that lay ahead. Yes, there was danger, and some would fall. But somehow, deep inside, Ofay knew he would be among those who would eventually go home to describe the battle to their admiring mates. Because, from his perspective, that was how life should be.

  Such thoughts helped warm the soldier, who, being a member of a jungle-evolved species, was not as well equipped to deal with cold weather as a Naa, Hudathan, Thraki, or human would have be
en. And, Ofay knew that if it hadn’t been for the powered warm-suits his troopers wore, they would have been incapacitated within a matter of minutes. Just as so many of the largely improvident animals had been.

  Gradually, as daylight filtered down through the clouds, Ofay began to have a better appreciation of the terrain around him. The highway had been engineered to follow the contour of the mountainsides, and having just emerged from a U-shaped curve, was headed higher on a ledge carved from solid rock. That put a cliff to the officer’s right, and a drop-off on his left. From his vantage point, Ofay could see that the next right-pincer turn would take his unit around the end of a rocky promontory. The Ramanthian wished he knew what was on the other side of the point, but the cloud cover was blocking orbital surveillance, and his surviving spy-eye was on the blink.

  Ofay had scouts, though, both of whom were young enough to fly, so long as they didn’t have to carry much gear. So the order went out, and two troopers took to the sky and fought to gain altitude. Lung-warmed air jetted away from their beaks, and their wings made a soft whuffing sound as the soldiers spiraled steadily upwards. But Ofay, who was still caught up in visions of coming glory, was in too much of a hurry to wait for their reports. Soon, sometime later that day, the War Ofay would collide with animals and hold them. General Akoto would take care of the rest.

  The allied column was ten miles long and snaked back through a series of mountain curves, to the point where the rear guard was about to set off some explosives in an effort to block the road and slow their pursuers. The Ramanthians would clear the obstruction of course, but it would take them hours to do so, and hours were precious. Which made the fact that they were standing that much more frustrating.

  But General Kobbi was tired of getting his ass kicked. Even though the officer knew the allies were losing the war, he was determined to win a battle. That was why both he and senior members of his staff were at the head of the column staring at two black dots as they topped the promontory ahead. “They sent scouts,” Colonel Quinlan commented, as he eyed the airborne Ramanthians. “They know we’re here.”

  The two men were mounted on battle-scarred T-2s. The force around them consisted of thirty-six cyborgs in all, each carrying a heavily armed bio bod, all of whom were combat-ready. Steam rose around them as snowflakes hit warm metal. Half the group had been stripped out of the rear guard, which meant the column would be vulnerable if Akoto came up quickly, but Kobbi was betting on the Legion’s ability to engage the force ahead and defeat it quickly. “They know we’re here,” Kobbi admitted grimly. “But the ugly bastards are still going to die!”

  So saying, Kobbi gave a preparatory order, followed by a single word: “Charge!” And, because the legionnaires had been ready for some time by then, they were quick to respond. The width of the highway would allow only five cyborgs to advance in a line abreast. Still, five T-2s supported by an equal number of bio bods represented a lot of firepower, especially when pitted against unsupported infantry.

  Ofay knew that, too, and was still in the process of trying to figure out what to do, when a group of murderous cyborgs rounded the promontory ahead and opened fire. They were traveling at about thirty miles per hour by then, and firing every weapon they had. The effect was devastating. Especially since only the first rank of Ofay’s troops could fire without hitting the ranks in front of them.

  Dozens of Ramanthians fell, cut down by the withering fire, and much to Ofay’s horror, the rest began to turn back! They collided with troops to the rear, confusion ensued, and dozens went down. The force commander not only ordered his soldiers to face the enemy, but even went so far as to wade into the mob and shoot two of the retreating troopers. But, rather than restore order as he hoped the punitive measure would, the summary executions caused one of the fear-crazed troopers to shoot Ofay in the face. The projectile blew the back of the force commander’s skull out, sprayed blood and brains all over those behind him, and brought Ofay’s dreams of glory to an abrupt end.

  All constraints having been removed, the badly panicked Ramanthians attempted to flee west. But that was a mistake, because while Ofay’s attention was focused on the enemy ahead, Alpha Company had closed in behind them. That, ironically enough, was the fate that General Akoto wanted to impose on the allies.

  While Santana didn’t have thirty-six T-2s to work with, there was no need to charge, not so long as the bugs were coming toward him. And he had a quad, which having already settled over its vulnerable legs, was positioned in the middle of the road with walls of T-2s and bio bods to either side. All of whom opened fire simultaneously.

  Even as the chits sought to flee Kobbi and his cyborgs, they were cut to pieces by the force behind them and died in waves. Some staggered like marionettes with palsy as bullets tugged at their bodies. Others were ripped apart by the grenades that Hoyt and her CVAs fired from behind the legionnaires and marines. And dozens appeared to melt as bolts of iridescent blue energy plowed bloody holes through the Ramanthian ranks. The only problem was the need to keep their fire down, and on target, lest Alpha Company kill members of Kobbi’s force farther up the road.

  The slaughter forced the bugs to turn again and run the other way, only to suffer the same fate all over again. That’s where Quinlan was, right in the thick of it, killing yet another bug for his daughter, when one of the winged scouts landed on his back and went in for the kill. The bug knew he was going to die as he reached forward to jerk the animal’s helmet back, but that was fine, so long as he could take a human with him.

  Quinlan was reaching back over his shoulders, trying to get a grip on whatever had attached itself to his back, when he saw the sudden flash of steel. That was followed by a burning sensation, an explosion of blood, and a moment of dizziness. Then he was gone.

  Kobbi, who was only a dozen feet away, saw the whole thing. He fired a long burst from his CA-10 into the Ramanthian and had the satisfaction of seeing the soldier fall away. But it was too late to save Quinlan, who hung lifeless in his harness, as his blood-drenched cyborg continued to fight.

  It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, when all of the killing was over, that the general could dismount and walk over to the place where Quinlan’s body had been laid next to the road. Some sort of epitaph was required, or so it seemed to Kobbi, as he knelt next to the dead legionnaire. “You weren’t the smartest officer I ever served with,” the general said gruffly. “Or even the most dedicated. But you died like a man. Like a legionnaire—of whom all can be proud.” And that, coming from General Mortimer Kobbi, was high praise indeed.

  17

  To illustrate this part somewhat, I shall say that the privileged class may be one of two sorts; either they conduct themselves in such a way as to be under your obligation or not. Those who are, and are not rapacious, must be honored and cherished. Those who are not so bound to you may be of two sorts; either they act as they do out of pusillanimity or natural lack of spirit and in such cases you must use them, especially such as are of good counsel, since in prosperity they do you honor and in adversity you have naught to fear from them; but when they are of the second kind and deliberately refuse to be dependent on you, for their own scheming and ambitious reasons then you may be sure they are thinking more of themselves than you, and a prince should be very wary of such and regard them as open enemies. . . .

  —Niccolò Machiavelli

  The Prince

  Standard year 1513

  PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Hive was perfect. Or so it seemed to Chancellor Ubatha as a government transport carried him over beautifully sunlit fields toward a meeting approximately two hundred miles south of the capital city. Thanks to hundreds of years of hard work, and the fact that all of the Ramanthian power plants, factories, and cities were located underground, the planet’s surface was equivalent to an enormous work of art. Rivers had the more-disciplined look of canals, thousands of fruit trees stood in carefully pruned ranks, and well-watered crop circles were thick with
green vegetables. All of which stood in marked contrast to what Ubatha had seen on worlds like Earth, where citizens were allowed to rip the surface asunder, pollute the air, and export their garbage into space. It was just one more example of why Ramanthian culture was superior to all the rest.

  But as the transport’s shadow caressed the well-manicured terrain below, the bureaucrat knew there were other things to focus on, not the least of which was the meeting in which he was about to participate. Given the official’s rank, second only to the Queen, most of his days were spent in meetings—some of which were productive while many weren’t. The trick was to maximize the former and minimize the latter. A fairly straightforward process for the most part.

  There was a third category of meetings, however: those that could be dangerous regardless of how productive they might or might not be. While participating in such gatherings might be perilous, it was equally dangerous to ignore them, which was why Ubatha had profound misgivings about the get-together that ex-Governor Oma Parth was hosting.

  Though billed as nothing more than “a gathering of old friends,” it was clearly more than that, because every person on the guest list other than Ubatha had one thing in common: Prior to the Hive Mother’s regrettable death, the invitees had been high-ranking government officials or senior military officers who had been pushed out of their jobs within weeks of the current Queen’s elaborate coronation. Even though it was an entirely normal part of the succession process, the displacements could still generate resentment.

  That was where the danger came in. Odds were that the gathering was nothing more than an opportunity for disgruntled retirees to get together and talk about the extent to which they had been abused. If so, Ubatha would have to sit and sympathize.