When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  Santana swore softly as he put the printout down and looked at a picture he hadn’t had any reason to pay attention to until then. The face that looked back at him was young, surprisingly pretty given her father’s porcine features, and locked in an eternal smile. The possibility that Quinlan might have a family, and have feelings toward them, had never occurred to Santana.

  It wasn’t easy to drag the portly colonel over to his bunk, roll him onto it, and arrange his body so that he looked reasonably comfortable. Then, having thrown a blanket over the offi?cer and dimmed the lights, Santana slipped out into the corridor. There was a gentle hissing sound as the hatch closed, and the red “Do not enter,” sign appeared over the entry.

  The meet and greet with General-453 was already under way by the time Santana entered the ship’s wardroom. Kobbi was seated at the far end of the compartment and shot the company commander a questioning look as he slipped into the room. But there was no chance to talk as a marine colonel rose to pose a question. “What about weather, sir?” the grizzled leatherneck wanted to know. “I understand winter’s on the way—and we don’t have the proper equipment.”

  Santana was seated next to Kobbi by that time, and the two men exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing. The cold-weather gear that Santana and Dietrich had “requisitioned” from the navy was aboard, but wouldn’t be issued until the very last minute, lest the swabbies fi?nd out what was going on.

  Meanwhile, General-453 was perched on the corner of the head table and seemed to enjoy the interaction with his subordinates. “I understand the nature of your concern, Colonel,” he said smoothly. “Gamma-014 is well-known for the severity of its winters. Fortunately, our forces will be able to land and eradicate the bugs before the really nasty weather sets in. It may be necessary to leave an occupying force behind of course—but the Hegemony will supply them with whatever they need. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Kobbi said, as he came to his feet. “I wonder if the general could provide us with more information regarding the capabilities of the Civilian Volunteer Army. . . . Specifi?cally, how much training they’ve had, what role they will play, and for which units?”

  General-453 didn’t like the question, as was clear from the expression on his face and the contemptuous way in which his response was worded. “Kobbi is it? Well, General Kobbi. . . . Had you taken time to read the Plan of Battle, especially the subsection titled ‘The Role of Civilian Volunteers,’ you would already know the answer to your question. But, since you didn’t, I will reply by saying that each volunteer is genetically qualifi?ed to fulfi?ll his or her role, is already an expert in one of three clearly defi?ned support specialties, and has been through four weeks of rigorous military orientation. That training includes familiarization with the chain of command, roles and responsibilities for each rank, and the appropriate protocols.”

  Everyone watched as Kobbi, who was still on his feet, nodded respectfully. “Sir, yes sir. . . . But can they fi?ght?”

  That produced a nervous titter, followed by a series of coughs, and a rustling noise as some of the offi?cers repositioned themselves. The clone, who was visibly angry by that time, seemed to spit out his words one at a time. “Yes, General. The CVA can fi?ght if need be. But if you, and your troops, do the job properly, they won’t have to. Will they?”

  The caustic interchange might have continued had it not been for one of Four-fi?fty-three’s aides, who took the opportunity to intervene. “I’m sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but the general is due aboard the Mimas two hours from now, and his shuttle is waiting.”

  The meeting broke up shortly after that, and Santana was forced to wait as more than a dozen offi?cers stopped by to thank Kobbi for asking about the CVA, before fi?ling out into the corridor. Finally, once they were alone, Santana had the opportunity to tell Kobbi about Quinlan’s daughter. The senior offi?cer winced and shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things aren’t going well, Tony—not well at all.”

  Was Kobbi referring to Quinlan’s daughter? General453’s arrogant leadership style? Or to the conduct of the entire war? There was no way to be sure—and Santana knew better than to ask.

  5

  There is no better fate than a glorious death in the face of insurmountable odds for the sake of one’s clan.

  —Grand Marshal Hisep Rula-Ka

  The Warrior’s Way

  Standard year 2590

  ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP STERN-KRIEGER , NEAR PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Except for the LEDs on Fleet Admiral Cory Trimble’s workstation, vid screen, and bedside clock, it was pitch-black inside her cabin as the com began to chirp. Trimble swore as she surfaced from a deep sleep, fumbled for the handset, and brought it up to her ear. “Yes?”

  The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Flag Captain Hol Baraki. The two offi?cers had known each other for more than twenty years, so when Trimble heard the tightness in his voice, she knew something was wrong. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Admiral,” Baraki said formally. “But we need you on the bridge. The fi?rst elements of what we assume to be a Ramanthian fl?eet dropped hyper fi?ve minutes ago.”

  Trimble felt an iron fi?st grab hold of her insides and start to squeeze. Here was one of the scenarios that she and her staff had warned the Joint Chiefs about when President Nankool took 10 percent of the already-anemic home fl?eet and sent it off to take part in the attack on Gamma-014. But the knowledge that she and her staff had been correct brought Trimble no pleasure as she said, “I’ll be right there,” and put the handset down.

  Klaxons had begun to bleat by that time, but could barely be heard within Trimble’s tightly sealed cabin, as the ship’s crew went to battle stations. The Stern-Krieger (Star Warrior), was a sister ship to the famous Gladiator, which had been lost to a Ramanthian ambush only months before. Her fi?ve-milelong hull was protected by energy shields, thick armor, and an arsenal of weapons that included both energy cannons and missile launchers. And, like any vessel her size, the Krieg was accompanied by more than two dozen escorts, including a couple of heavy cruisers, a medium-sized carrier, six destroyers, and a variety of smaller warships, supply vessels, and a fl?eet tug. All of which sounded impressive, but was only onethird of the force assigned to protect Earth prior to a long series of peacetime budget cuts, increasing apathy on the part of the planet’s citizens, and the steady erosion of assets associated with the war. But there wasn’t a damned thing Trimble could do about that as she took the time necessary to apply some makeup before donning a fresh uniform. Not because she was vain, but because it was important to look the way she usually did, especially during a time of crisis. The face in the mirror had a high forehead, wide-set hazel eyes, and lips that were too thin to be sexy. It was a fl?aw the offi?cer had always intended to fi?x, but never gotten around to, like so many things related to her personal life. Her hair, which was silvery, barely touched her collar.

  Once dressed, Trimble took one last look in the mirror, threw her shoulders back, and left the cabin. A pair of marine guards came to attention, offered rifl?e salutes, and followed the admiral up the corridor toward the bridge. It was a short trip, and intended to be, since her sleeping cabin was located just aft of the control room.

  The battleship’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer was generally referred to as Gertrude for reasons lost to history—and was currently making use of onebillionth of her considerable capabilities to communicate with the Krieg’s crew. “This is not a drill. . . . Secure all gear, check space armor, and strap in. Primary weapons systems, secondary weapons systems, and tertiary weapons systems have been armed. All fi?ghter aircraft are prepared for immediate launch. . . .”

  The two smartly uniformed marines posted just outside the control room crashed to attention as the admiral approached, and remained in that position until the hatch hissed open, and Trimble entered the bridge. The marines assigned to protect her remained outside.

  An ensign shouted, “Attention on
deck!” but Trimble waved the honor off, and made her way down a gently sloping ramp toward the center of the dimly lit control room. It consisted of a huge windowlike vid screen, that was largely useless at the moment, since there was nothing to look at except a couple of escorts that were half-lit by the sun. So Trimble went straight to the 3-D holo tank located at the center of the bridge, where Baraki and two members of his staff were monitoring the Ramanthian incursion. The entire solar system could be seen fl?oating inside the containment, including a miniature sun, eight realisticlooking planets, their moons, numerous planetoids, asteroids, comets, and even the larger pieces of man-made junk—like the abandoned hab in orbit around Venus. And there, headed toward Jupiter, were the green geometrical shapes that represented the home fl?eet. The other offi?cers looked up as Trimble stepped into the glow that surrounded the holo tank. Their faces were lit from below, and their expressions were grim. “So, how does it look?” the admiral inquired hopefully.

  “Not good,” Baraki said darkly. The fl?ag captain had neatly combed dark hair, serious brown eyes, and a long face. “Especially now. . . . Look at what popped out of hyperspace two minutes ago.”

  The enemy fl?eet was represented by geometric symbols. Each signifi?ed a particular type of ship, and all of them were red. However, the incoming object that Baraki had referred to didn’t conform to any known classifi?cation of warship. It was too big for one thing, shaped like a sphere, and seemingly under the protection of the bug battle group that was clustered around it. “I see it,” Trimble acknowledged. “But what is it?”

  “We’re not absolutely sure yet,” the other offi?cer answered cautiously. “But it looks like the Ramanthians strapped a hyperdrive to a small planetoid, and are using pressor beams to nudge it toward Earth. Kind of like a soccer game.”

  “My God!” Trimble exclaimed, as the implication of that became clear. “They plan to push the planetoid in, hit the planet, and lay waste to the surface!”

  “Yes,” Baraki agreed bleakly. “That’s the way it looks.”

  “Well, they aren’t going to succeed,” Trimble said grimly, as she brought a fi?st down on the rail that circled the holo tank. “We’re going to hit that thing with everything we have, knock it off course, and send those bastards to hell! Notify the escorts, accelerate to fl?ank speed, and prepare to engage.”

  Baraki nodded. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” Then, having turned to his XO, the fl?ag captain growled, “You heard the admiral. Let’s grease the bastards.”

  ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS , NEAR PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  In marked contrast to human warships, where the bridge was often located toward the vessel’s bow, Ramanthian architects preferred to bury their control rooms deep inside the hull, where they were that much safer. So that was where the newly promoted Admiral Ru Lorko was, standing in front of a fl?oating holo, with pincers clasped behind his wings. The naval offi?cer had large compound eyes, a pair of antennae that projected from the top of his head, a hooked beak, and an elongated exoskeleton that had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate. A shiny rectangle that was the genesis of the nickname, “Old Iron Back,” and of which he was secretly proud.

  Though once considered too eccentric for promotion to higher rank, Lorko was the offi?cer who had been responsible for the destruction of the Gladiator and her entire battle group. The victory had brought the commodore to the Queen’s attention, catapulted the often-irascible offi?cer to the rank of admiral, and led to his latest mission: Attack, occupy, and govern Earth. A diffi?cult task under the best of circumstances, but made even more so by the presence of the warrior queen, who was forever asking questions, making unsolicited comments, and offering gratuitous advice. And now, as the enemy came out to meet him, she was there at Lorko’s side. “You were correct,” the royal said unnecessarily. “They took the bait.”

  The naval offi?cer’s response was little more than the Ramanthian equivalent of a grunt. But the Queen had been briefed regarding Lorko’s personality and took no offense. Because to her way of thinking, the admiral and the rest of her staff were tools, and so long as the tools functioned as they were supposed to, nothing else mattered. Even though the two fl?eets were coming at each other at incredible speed, many hours were to pass before the leading elements of each battle group would make contact. There were plenty of things for Trimble to do at fi?rst. But eventually, after the proper notifi?cations had been made, all the admiral could do was wait as the distance between the two fl?eets continued to diminish. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Ramanthians were within range. The fi?rst missiles were fi?red, and even though Trimble knew most of them would be intercepted, she was looking forward to drawing fi?rst blood. But then, just as the fi?rst weapons neared their targets, the enemy fl?eet disappeared!

  Both the Admiral and the other offi?cers who were gathered around the holo tank assumed they were looking at a technical glitch, until Gertrude’s calm, nearly infl?ectionless voice came over the PA system. “With the exception of the spherical object, presently designated as P-1, all other enemy vessels reentered hyperspace. Destination unknown.”

  The immediate response was a loud cheer, as the bridge crew celebrated what looked like a rout, as the fl?eet continued to close with P-1. But Trimble felt something cold trickle into the pit of her stomach as the Ramanthian planetoid continued to grow larger. No damage had been infl?icted. No casualties had been suffered. So why abandon the fi?eld of battle? There had to be a reason. A strategy of some sort. But what was it?

  That was the moment when the planetoid exploded, a new sun was born, and 72 percent of the home fl?eet was destroyed as successive rings of white-hot plasma radiated out to vaporize everything they touched. One moment the SternKrieger was there, and the next moment she wasn’t, as both the fl?agship and most of her escorts ceased to exist. The roar of static fi?lled the ether, and the debris fi?eld continued to expand outwards, all without the loss of a single Ramanthian life. And there, with practically nothing to protect it, lay planet Earth.

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  Night had fallen hours before, but having nothing to fear from above, the Ramanthian base was lit up like a double helix on Founder’s Day. That made it easy for Colonel Six and his men to see what was going on inside the razor wire and pick targets for their 81mm mortars. The weapons had a range of approximately six thousand yards, which meant they would be able to reach everything within the perimeter. To prevent such an attack, groups of civilian POWs had been placed adjacent to, and in some cases right on top of, key targets, including the command bunker, shuttle pad, and ammo dump. And, based on hours of careful scrutiny, Colonel Six knew that the hostages weren’t free breeders but law-abiding founder folk. Which put the offi?cer in something of a moral quandary. Because as a soldier it was his job to protect civilians rather than kill them. So what should he do? Break off the attack? So the Ramanthians could kill more civilians? Or attack the base, knowing full well that POWs would die along with the enemy, in hopes that other innocent lives would be saved?

  It was an extremely diffi?cult decision, but one the founder had anticipated, and provided for in her book, The Great Design. “When forced to choose between genetic lines,”

  Hosokawa had written, “the hierarchy must always choose the action that will benefi?t the greatest number of people. Because society is the organism—and the organism must survive.”

  The carefully memorized words gave Six some comfort as he low-crawled from position to position, checking to make sure that all of the Seebos were ready. And he had just arrived at tube three, and given the crew a few words of reassurance, when a bright light stabbed down out of the night sky. The mortar crew was fully illuminated as a synthesized voice gave orders in Ramanthian. The words were cut short as the clone fi?red his submachine gun. The bullet-riddled robot fell not four feet from the mortar and burst into fl?ames. “Fire!” Six shouted into his lip mike. “Let the ugly free-breeding ba
stards have it!”

  And fi?re the clones did, with the 81mm mortars, which began to drop bombs into the camp with monotonous regularity, crew-served 5.56 × 45mm light machine guns, and extremely accurate sniper rifl?es. Which, unlike the .50caliber weapons preferred by the Legion, fi?red bolts of energy. They were visible but eerily silent. The result was a hellish symphony in which the staccato rattle made by the light machine guns provided a sharp counterpoint to a series of percussive booms as the 81mm mortar rounds marched across the compound. Those sounds were punctuated by the steady bang, bang, bang of semiautomatic weapons, shrill screams as dozens of hostages were killed, and a chorus of strident whistles as Ramanthian noncoms attempted to rally their troops. There was outgoing fi?re, too, but it was spotty at best, because only a third of the Ramanthians had been awake when the attack began and dozens were cut down as they emerged from their bunkers to join the fi?ght. All of that was clear to see because, for some inexplicable reason, the lights were still on!

  Then the executions began. The Ramanthian offi?cer was armed with a sword. And given the volume of incoming fi?re, was either very brave, or very fanatical, as he made his way from one group of POWs to the next, his weapon rising and falling with a terrible regularity as he slaughtered the helpless prisoners.

  “Kill that offi?cer!” Six ordered, as his targeting laser wobbled over the Ramanthian’s chest. The alien looked up, as if to see where the red dot was coming from, and it was the last thing he ever did, as a bolt of coherent energy left one of the sniper rifl?es, shot across the intervening space, and blew the bug’s head off. Light rippled along the length of blade as the bloodied sword fl?ew into the air, fl?ipped end over end, and landed point down.