When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  Vanderveen joined the rest of the staff in a loud cheer. But Booly, who harbored serious misgivings about the new alliance, was noticeably silent. “And the bad news?” the offi?cer inquired cynically, as the noise died away. “How bad is bad?”

  It was the moment that Nankool had been dreading. There was nothing he could do but tell the truth. “Given that Gamma-014 is one of their planets, and that roughly sixty percent of the joint task force will consist of clone troops, the Hegemony wants to put one of their generals in overall command.”

  Booly looked down at the fl?oor as if to momentarily hide his expression before bringing his eyes back up. Everyone in the room knew that the joint chiefs opposed such an arrangement, and for some very good reasons. Although the Hegemony’s soldiers were good, the Seebos had little if any experience where joint operations were concerned. That, combined with a general air of superiority, and the very real possibility that clone offi?cers would show favoritism toward their own kind, meant things could and probably would go wrong—the kinds of things that could cause a whole lot of casualties for the Confederacy. So, even though Booly’s voice was neutral, there was no question as to how the general felt. “And your position, Mr. President?”

  Booly had been loyal to Nankool, very loyal, and was a bona fi?de war hero to boot. Not to mention the fact that his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, was the billionaire president of the star-spanning company that her uncle Sergi Chien-Chu had founded, and was therefore quite infl?uential. So the politician wanted to make the general happy. But the alliance was important, critically important, even if the price was high. So there was nothing Nankool could do but look Booly in the eye and say what he believed. “I wish it were otherwise, General, but we need this alliance, and I believe we should agree to it. I promise you that after we take Gamma-014, the joint chiefs will be in control of the campaigns that follow.”

  A lump had formed in the back of Booly’s throat, but he managed to swallow it. The president’s mind was made up, that was clear, and given the extent of his wartime powers, Nankool had the authority to create such alliances when necessary. The Senate would have to ratify the agreement, but that would take months, and chances were that the battle for Gamma-014 would be over by the time they got around to it. For better or for worse. “Sir, yes sir,” Booly said dutifully. “Has a general been chosen?”

  Vanderveen saw Nankool’s expression brighten as it became clear that Booly wasn’t going to challenge his authority.

  “Why, yes,” the politician answered cheerfully. “The offi?cer the Hegemony put forward is General Seebo-785,453. Do you know him?”

  Booly winced, and the staff offi?cers seated around him were heard to groan. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Nankool responded grimly. “And I’m sorry you don’t approve. But that’s how it is—so we’ll have to make do. Besides, once you and your staff put your minds to it, I’m sure you’ll fi?nd ways to manage him the same way that you manage me!”

  That got a laugh from the civilian staff, but Vanderveen could tell that the offi?cers were disappointed, and felt sorry for them. Because now that she knew a soldier the way she knew Santana, the diplomat had a much deeper appreciation of the way in which the military was often squeezed between the vagaries of political necessity, and the realities of war.

  With the alliance in place and the question of command having been settled, it was time to address logistics. The Confederacy was already hard-pressed, and the need to dedicate scarce resources to Gamma-014 meant military assets would have to be withdrawn from some other location. But which one? Each possibility entailed risk. Eventually, all of the arguments and counterarguments began to blur, and Vanderveen’s attention began to wander. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the window at the far end of the conference room and the cityscape beyond. That was when the diplomat noticed the people on the roof across the street. And as she watched, they muscled a long cylindrical object up onto the waist-high wall in front of them. Then, having secured both sides of whatever the object was to the building, they pushed it over the side. As the roll of plastic fell free, a blue banner was revealed. The white letters were at least six feet high, and spelled out the words “FREEDOM

  NOW!”

  Given its location, there was no doubt about whom the protesters were trying to communicate with, and since no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the sign, Vanderveen raised a hand. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” the diplomat said. “But it appears as though someone is trying to send you a message.”

  The entire group followed Vanderveen’s pointing fi?nger over to the opposite building and not a moment too soon. Clone security agents were already on the roof by that point. It took less than fi?ve minutes for the secret police to arrest the protesters, pull the banner back up, and disappear from sight. All of which was both interesting and disturbing. Because as the Confederacy sought to prop the Hegemony up— there was the very real possibility that it had already started to crumble.

  PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The Legion’s base on Adobe had been constructed after the fi?rst Hudathan war, and was laid out in concentric circles, with the spaceport, which was designated A-1, located at the very center of the sprawling facility. Santana was supposed to meet General Kobbi on C-2, Sector 3, which was dedicated to supply, a simple word that embraced everything from mess kits to the state-of-the-art NAVCOMPS

  that naval vessels required to fi?nd their way through hyperspace. Rather than hike all the way in from F-3, where the 1st REC was quartered, or try to requisition a vehicle, Santana had chosen to ride Sergeant Omi Deker instead. It was a very good decision since the T-2 knew his way around the base.

  So as the cyborg jogged along one of the main roads that radiated out from A-1, the helmeted offi?cer was free to look around. It was not only hellishly hot, but eternally dusty, despite the water the big tanker trucks laid down four times a day. Infl?atable habs lined the streets. They looked like half cylinders laid on their sides, and in spite of the fact that they weren’t intended for permanent use, some of them had been there for ten or even fi?fteen years.

  And, if there were plenty of things to see, there were plenty of things to hear as well. As the two legionnaires passed through territory that belonged to a variety of different commands, they were exposed to a cacophony of sound as power wrenches chattered, servos whined, engines rumbled, and a series of sonic booms rolled across the land. Discordant and chaotic though the base seemed to be, Santana could feel the underlying sense of purpose that bound everything together. Because even the lowliest private knew that one of the Hegemony’s planets had been taken by the Ramanthians, and that the clones had agreed to an alliance, which meant many of them would wind up as part of the task force being assembled to take Gamma-014 back.

  The announcement received mixed reviews in the O club, because, in spite of the fact that most offi?cers understood the importance of the alliance, many of them had doubts about the Hegemony’s military prowess. Except for Santana, that is, who had been sent to one of the clone worlds immediately after graduating from the academy, and fought side by side with the Seebos on LaNor years later. The cavalry offi?cer’s train of thought was interrupted as Deker took a right onto C-2. “We’re almost there,” the noncom announced over the intercom. “That’s the hab up ahead.”

  The Supply Command structure wasn’t much to look at, and was far too small to house much more than a few desks, but a quick check confi?rmed that they were in the right place. Once the T-2 came to a halt, Santana removed his helmet, left it on a hook intended for that purpose, and jumped to the ground. A cloud of fi?ne red dust billowed up around his boots as he pulled a garrison-style cloth “piss cutter”

  onto his head in lieu of the bulky blue kepi Legion offi?cers normally wore. “Take a break, Sergeant. I’ll contact you via my pocket com when it’s time to leave.”

  “Roger that, sir,” the T-2 replied. Deker had friends everywhere—and Supply was no exception. And
maybe, just maybe, the cyborg could beg, borrow, or steal a pair of knee couplers. Because even though it was against regs to hoard parts, some items were harder to get than others, and couplers were in short supply. And Deker had no intention of trying to fi?ght the Ramanthians with one or both of his knees locked in place.

  Once inside the hab, Santana discovered that the interior was not only blessedly cool, but reasonably free of dust, which was something of a miracle. A corporal showed the cavalry offi?cer into an offi?ce where both General Kobbi and a middle-aged colonel were seated. The supply offi?cer had bushy eyebrows, fl?inty eyes, and a horizontal slash for a mouth. Kobbi made the introductions as the staff offi?cer stood. “Colonel Hamby, this is Captain Santana. He was one of my platoon leaders on Savas.”

  Everyone knew about the raid on Savas, and Hamby’s respect for the tall, dark-haired offi?cer went up a notch at the mere mention of it. “Glad to meet you, Captain,” the supply offi?cer said gruffl?y as the two men shook hands. “Welcome to Regimental SupCom.”

  Santana said, “Thank you, sir,” and waited to hear why he had been summoned.

  But no explanation was forthcoming as Kobbi stood, and said, “Come on. There’s something we want to show you.”

  So Santana had little choice but to follow the other offi?cers down a short hallway to a bank of elevators. Suddenly the cavalry offi?cer understood why the surface hab was so small. The supplies were underground, an arrangement that reminded the offi?cer of Oron IV, as the elevator lowered them down into the interconnected caverns that lay below the C-Ring. When the platform came to a stop, and the door slid open, they entered the subterranean equivalent of a gigantic warehouse. Or that portion of the ring-shaped underground storage facility assigned to the Legion—since both the navy and Marine Corps controlled portions of the facility as well. Lights marked off regular intervals above them, a small army of specially equipped androids whirred about, and the air temperature verged on frigid.

  An electric-powered cart was waiting for them. Hamby slipped behind the controls, and Kobbi sat in the passenger seat, which left Santana to jump in the back. He braced himself and hung on as the supply offi?cer put his foot to the fl?oor. The vehicle whirred loudly as it carried them past twenty-foot-tall storage racks, into a maze of neatly stacked cargo modules, and past a battalion of shrink-wrapped T-2 war forms.

  Finally, just as Santana was beginning to wonder when the journey would end, Hamby turned into a side corridor and came to an abrupt stop. The senior offi?cers got out, so Santana did likewise, and followed them over to a line of tables. What looked like a full kit had been laid out, starting with uniforms, boots, and body armor, followed by night-vision equipment, weapons, com gear, and much, much more. In short, everything that a bio bod would require for combat. But Santana was mystifi?ed. After all, why would a general and a colonel bring him all the way down into an underground storage facility, just to look at gear that he and every other legionnaire were already familiar with? Kobbi nodded as if able to read the younger offi?cer’s mind. “So, Captain,” he said. “Knowing full well that we are about to take a little trip to Gamma-014, and having done your homework, what’s wrong with this picture?”

  Both of the senior offi?cers watched expectantly as Santana ran a critical eye over the kit. That was when the cavalry offi?cer remembered what he had read about the Hegemony planet and put one and one together. “It’s going to be winter when we land,” Santana said. “And the uniforms on the table were designed for desert use.”

  “Bingo,” Hamby said grimly. “And, because LEGCOM

  informs me that we won’t be able to get any winter gear until after the campaign begins, I’d say that the 1st REC is going to freeze its collective ass off.”

  “As if we don’t have enough problems,” Kobbi put in gloomily.

  “Now,” the supply offi?cer said, as he motioned for the other two to follow him. “Take a look at this!”

  Santana arrived at the very last table to fi?nd that a complete set of cold-weather camos had been laid out on the table, including thermal underwear, heated socks, insulated vests, wind-and snow-resistant outerwear, and heavy-duty boots. All of which were identical to what the Legion would issue to its bio bods except for one important detail: Rather than the white-gray camo pattern that the Legion preferred, the uniforms spread out in front of the cavalry offi?cer were white and black, which was the iteration the navy issued to its personnel when they were forced to work on wintry planets like Algeron. Just one of the ways in which the various branches sought to preserve their precious identities. But what, if anything, did that have to do with Santana? He was mystifi?ed. “That’s some nice-looking gear, sir. Naval issue if I’m not mistaken.”

  “No, you’re correct,” Hamby responded evenly. “Ironically, given our situation, the navy storage facility on the far side of the C-Ring has tons of that stuff. More than they will be able to use during the next fi?ve years.”

  “But they don’t want to give it to us,” Kobbi said disgustedly. “Because an unforeseen emergency could arise—

  and a certain admiral wants to cover his ass.”

  By that time the true purpose of the meeting was starting to become apparent. Having attempted to obtain the cold-weather gear through offi?cial channels, and having been refused—Kobbi and the regimental supply offi?cer were contemplating a so-called midnight requisition. And, rather than order Santana to steal the supplies, which would be illegal, they were informing him of the need in hopes that he would take it upon himself to effect the necessary “transfer.”

  The unoffi?cial assignment was a compliment of sorts, since it implied a great deal of trust on Kobbi’s part, but it was also unfair. Since the Legion could court-martial Santana if he was caught—while the more senior offi?cers would probably go free. He could say “no,” of course, by simply ignoring the entire conversation, which was clearly the smart thing to do. Even if that meant losing Kobbi’s sponsorship. But that would mean that the 1st REC’s bio bods would hit the dirt on Gamma-014 dressed for a summer stroll just as the temperature started to drop and snow fell out of the sky. The result would be unnecessary casualties. Which was why Santana was going to do the wrong thing for what he believed to be the right reasons. Kobbi detected the slight hardening of the cavalry offi?cer’s features and knew he had the right man. “That’s unfortunate, sir,” Santana said evenly.

  “Thank you for the briefi?ng. Is there anything else?”

  Hamby looked over to Kobbi, saw the general shake his head, and looked back again. “No, Captain. There isn’t.

  Come on. I have a bottle of Scotch stashed in my desk—and there’s no reason to save it.”

  The Legion had strict rules about who could legitimately have sex with whom, but there was always someone who chose to violate such regulations, even though the penalties could be quite severe. One such individual was Staff Sergeant Lin Schira who, having successfully seduced one of the clerks that reported to him, enjoyed having sex with her in the storage room adjacent to the offi?ce they shared with three other people. A rather mechanical process in which the lance corporal was required to drop her pants, bend over, and hang on to a storage rack while Schira took her from behind. And, because the sergeant liked to have sex just prior to lunch, everyone knew better than to enter the storage room at 1130 hours. Everyone except Company Sergeant Dice Dietrich that is, who had been aware of the daily assignation for some time, but had chosen to mind his own business. But that was then, and this was now, as the rangy noncom entered the BatSup offi?ce, ordered all of the enlisted people to

  “take ten,” and made his way over to the door labeled “Storeroom.” Plastic buckled as Dietrich kicked the door in and a girlish scream was heard as the hard-eyed noncom entered with camera in hand. Schira swore as the fl?ash strobed, and there was a good deal of scuffl?ing as the lovers hurried to pull their pants up. “Yeah, yeah,” Dietrich said heartlessly. “Life sucks. But that’s how God wants it! Now, assuming you would like to own
this camera, there are some things you’ll need to do for me. Or, I can send this puppy up to the general, who will pull your stripes and send you to a billet even worse than Adobe. So, what’ll it be? The choice is yours.”

  Even though Navy Master Chief Yas Ruha could have spent the entire watch sitting on his can, while the twenty-one bio bods and robots under his command did all the work, he liked to pilot the bright yellow CH-60 loaders and took pride in his ability to do so. That was why the lifer was strapped into one of the fi?fteen-foot-tall exoskeletons, busy plucking cargo modules off the “three” shelf, when a “train” load of cargo modules arrived at the bottom of the four-lane access ramp. Which, in keeping with standing orders, his subordinates were quick to report.

  Having placed the last module onto an outgoing power pallet, Ruha guided the huge walker over to the vast inprocessing area, where newly arrived supplies were routinely scanned into the tracking system, prior to being stored on the appropriate racks. Two neatly uniformed navy supply techs were waiting to greet the master chief as he put the CH-60 on standby and hit his harness release. Rather than use the builtin steps the way some newbie would, Ruha dropped onto an actuator, and wrapped his arms around a steel leg. Then, with a confi?dence that stemmed from years of practice, he slid to the fl?oor. “Good afternoon,” the diminutive master chief said as he crossed the pavement to where the other two men were waiting. “So what can you do for me?”

  The joke was suffi?cient to elicit a chuckle from both the dark-haired chief petty offi?cer and the hollow-cheeked fi?rstclass who stood at his side. “A whole shitload of space armor just came off the Epsilon Indi,” Santana answered genially. And it’s supposed to go aboard the Cygnus pronto. Unfortunately the Cygy isn’t going to drop hyper until o-dark-thirty. So we need a place to stash the stuff until tomorrow, when we can boost it back up. All the tracking data should be insystem.”