When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  The nine-digit number had been memorized at Alan’s urging, and for reasons she hadn’t been entirely sure of at the time, withheld from the debriefers. But it was safe, or so the Fisks claimed, so long as Vanderveen followed their instructions: Dial the number, provide a time, and hang up. That was the procedure. So Vanderveen entered the correct sequence of numbers into the keypad and waited for someone or something to answer. The device at the other end rang three times before a synthesized voice came on the line. The little video screen was blank. “Leave your message at the tone,” the voice said, and a beep followed. Vanderveen said, “Ten this morning,” and broke the connection. It was 8:37—and there was a lot to do. Not the least of which was to write a carefully worded memo to the assistant secretary of state in which Vanderveen put forth her arguments in favor of a relationship with the free-breeder underground and made clear her intention to act as an unoffi?cial liaison between the revolutionaries and the Confederacy. Then, with that chore out of the way, it was time to tend to other more routine matters. Like cramming as many necessities as possible into her briefcase, which she should be able to carry out of the hotel without generating any suspicion. Then, having sealed the memo in an envelope that she intended to slip under the secretary’s door, Vanderveen left her room.

  The park, located four blocks from Vanderveen’s hotel, was a popular place for retirees to congregate during the day. Especially given the fact that the dormitories that the clones lived in were rather bleak. That was why the Fisks had gone to considerable lengths to disguise themselves as harmless Hornbys, and were seated around a concrete table playing chess, when the free-breeder female entered the park, took a long look around, and sat on a bench. There were cameras in the park, lots of them, and the clock was running. But, unlike the old days when the Fisks had been forced to work alone, they had help now. Based on a signal from a Fisk, one of the Hornbys began to argue with an Ortov, and it wasn’t long before fi?sts fl?ew. That caused all of the security cameras to swivel toward the disturbance. And they were still focused on the fi?ght when the police arrived. The confl?ict came to an end at that point, but when the Romos went looking for the free breeder who had been spotted just prior to the fi?ght, the woman was gone. And none of the retirees remembered seeing her. FSO-2 Christine Vanderveen, daughter of Charles and Margaret Vanderveen, confi?dante to President Nankool, and the recipient of numerous awards for distinguished service to the Confederacy, had gone AWOL.

  9

  The reason we have always advocated a policy of luring the enemy to penetrate deeply is because it is the most effective tactic against a strong opponent.

  —Mao Tse-tung

  On Protracted War

  Standard year 1938

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  It was cold. The temperature had fallen thirty degrees during the last twelve hours, a persistent ten-mile-per-hour wind was blowing down through the long mountain pass, and a curtain of snow limited visibility to half a mile. Which would have been bad enough for troops who had proper gear. But unlike the 1st REC, most of the legionnaires, marines, and Seebos who had been sent up into the mountains were dressed in multiple layers of summer clothing. Because instead of winning the battle for Gamma-014 in a matter of weeks, as General-453 had predicted they would, the allies were bogged down. Rather than leapfrog ahead, and engage the main body of General Akoto’s forces before they could retreat into the At-Sak Mountains, the clone general insisted that isolated pockets of Ramanthians be eradicated fi?rst. An error made worse by the fact that as the weather continued to deteriorate, the allies soon lost one of the few advantages they had, which was air superiority. That was in spite of General Bill Booly’s repeated attempts to offer Four-fi?ftythree counsel. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the knowledge that Earth was under attack ate at everyone’s morale as Santana and Alpha Company followed other allied units up the long, twisting road that led to Tow-Tok Pass. Because even though people like Santana had no family there, all of them had friends on the planet, and still felt a special affection for Earth even if they had been born elsewhere. For his part, Santana knew that Margaret Vanderveen was probably on her own, and he was worried about her. And Christine would be frantic—but unable to help. Santana’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden shriek of an incoming artillery round, followed by an earthshaking carump, as a column of frozen soil was lifted high into the air two hundred yards ahead. And there, suspended within the geyser, the cavalry offi?cer could see darker forms that might have been bodies. Clone civilians, most likely, who until moments before, had been trudging along at the tail end of a CVA labor battalion. Santana yelled, “Incoming!” over the company push, but knew it was unnecessary, as more Ramanthian shells fell up ahead. Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo ordered the fi?rst platoon off the right side of the highway—even as Second Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin led the second platoon to the left. It was better than continuing to march right up the center of the two-lane road, but still far from safe. Because even though the Ramanthian gunners couldn’t actually see that section of road from their positions high in the mountains, they had coordinates for every inch of the highway. That, combined with targeting data fed to them by computercontrolled drones, allowed the aliens to lay down effective fi?re along both margins of the crowded road—the only place to go since cliffs, steep slopes, and carefully laid minefi?elds kept the allies hemmed in. That’s why Route 1

  was frequently referred to as “blood alley.” It was a long ribbon of wreck-strewn duracrete, every mile of which had to be paid for with lives, as the allies were sucked into Akoto’s trap.

  The chits weren’t free to fi?re on their pursuers with total impunity, however. Because even though the weather was keeping most of the allied air force on the ground, there were other ways for the allies to strike back. This was where the company’s quads came in. Both of the fi?fty-ton monsters opened fi?re at once. Blue energy bolts stuttered up into the snow-laced sky as onboard computers tracked the incoming shells and soon started to intercept them. The sound of explosions echoed back and forth between the surrounding mountain peaks as the incoming weapons were detonated high in the air. Which was good—but not good enough. Because some shells managed to get through, and the quads couldn’t fi?re indefi?nitely.

  “This is Alpha Six to Alpha One-Four, and Bravo OneFour,” Santana said, as Sergeant Omi Decker carried the offi?cer off the ice-encrusted pavement and into an area of wellchurned snow. The theory being that any piece of ground that had already been stepped on was probably free of mines. “How

  ’bout it?” Santana demanded. “Have you got a fi?x on the bastards? Over.”

  “Yes, sir,” Private Simy Xiong replied confi?dently. “Stand by for outgoing. Over.”

  Having tracked the incoming rounds back to their source—the quads were ready to strike at the Ramanthian artillery battery responsible for the bombardment. Missiles roared off rails, vanished into the swirling snow, and sought the enemy. “Got ’em!” Private Ivan Lupo exclaimed triumphantly, as a series of overlapping explosions was heard, and thunder rolled down the valley. “You can scratch one bug battery. Over.”

  “Well done,” Santana said. “That’ll teach the bastards a lesson!”

  That was true, but as Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC continued to follow the CVA unit up the wreckagestrewn road, the impact of the barrage was clear to see as Santana and his T-2 rounded a curve. A half-track loaded with civilians had taken a direct hit, killing most of those on board, and reducing the armored vehicle to little more than a pile of burning scrap. A survivor, the only one from all appearances, was kneeling next to a dead body. His hat was gone, and one arm was bloodied, but he didn’t even look up as a medic arrived to treat him.

  A hundred yards farther on, Santana saw eight marines laid out in a row along the left side of the road where two androids had paused to inspect them. Both robots had the initials “GR,” painted on their alloy bodies, which meant they were members of a graves registratio
n team. Each machine had a scanner that could be used to read the bar codes inked onto each clone’s forehead and the back of each marine’s neck. Data regarding the casualties would be uploaded to a satellite in orbit above and stored on the android’s CPU. Later, assuming that everything worked the way it was supposed to, trucks would travel the length of the highway and collect the dead. In the meantime bodies from both sides were routinely stripped of clothing, weapons, and food so that piles of partially clothed corpses were a common sight. It was growing dark by then, and it was dangerous to travel at night, which meant the company was going to need a place to bivouac, just like all the rest of the allied units strung out along two hundred miles of bloody road. So when scout Suresee Fareye spotted the turnout, and the jumble of burned-out vehicles that had been pushed into it, he was quick to alert Santana. “Alpha Six-Four to Alpha Six. Over.”

  Santana looked up the road, toward where the Naa and his T-2 should be, but couldn’t see either one of them through the swirling snow. The front portion of his body was toasty warm, thanks to the heat produced by his cyborg, but his ass was ice-cold. A strange phenomenon—but one the bio bods were already getting used to. “This is Alpha Six. Go. Over.”

  “I have what might make a good bivouac,” Fareye said, as a track loaded with miserable looking CVAs ground past him. “It’s on the left side of the highway. Over.”

  “Good,” Santana replied, as he eyed the display on his HUD. “We’ll be there in ten minutes or so. Don’t let anyone take it. Over.”

  “Roger,” the Naa confi?rmed. “Alpha Six-Four, out.”

  There was no such thing as a sunset in the wintry At-Sak Mountains. Just a quick fade into darkness. And the light had already started to dim by the time Santana arrived at what had probably been a scenic lookout back during better times but had since been transformed into a nightmarish salvage yard piled high with scrap, much of which had been mangled by explosions and blackened by fi?re. As Deker carried the offi?cer over to where Fareye and his T-2 stood waiting, Santana saw that a frozen Ramanthian, his face obscured by a mask of ice, still sat at the controls of an alien crawler.

  “There isn’t much room,” Santana observed cautiously, as he eyed the area around him.

  “That’s true,” Fareye agreed. “But what if the T-2s were to rearrange this junk? They could use it to build defensive walls and windbreaks.”

  Santana directed Deker around the pile and over to the edge of the road. But rather than the steep drop-off that Santana had been hoping for, he saw a long, gentle slope, that led to the valley below. It was diffi?cult to see, given the blowing snow, but it seemed logical to suppose that a river lay somewhere below. The incline looked innocent enough, but as Akoto and his troops had been forced to withdraw across Tow-Tok Pass, groups of fanatical warriors had been left behind. And, having gone to ground for days or even weeks, they could attack at any time. Often from above, which gave the bugs a tactical advantage, but sometimes from below. Which was the scenario that Santana feared as he looked down across the pristine snow. Fareye and Nhan had come around to join Santana by then and stood two feet away. “I think you’re right,” Santana confi?rmed. “We can make it work. But this slope bothers me. Take a couple of bio bods down and check it out. See if you can fi?nd a good spot for an OP. Something with a clear line of retreat.”

  Like all Naa, Fareye had been born and raised on wintry Algeron, and was covered with fur to boot. So the prospect of taking a downhill stroll through the snow didn’t bother the legionnaire in the least. But when the noncom ordered two members of the fi?rst squad, fi?rst platoon to join him, there was plenty of good-natured bitching as the threesome disappeared over the edge.

  With that process under way, Santana directed the rest of the fi?rst squad to set up a security screen around the company, while the rest of the legionnaires went to work carving out a place to camp. And, thanks to how strong the T-2s were, it wasn’t long before an oval-shaped enclosure had been created, with a quad anchoring each end of it. Special attention was paid to securing the outside slope, which, given the sheer cliff wall on the opposite side of the highway, was the point of greatest vulnerability. Then, as darkness settled over the mountains, and traffi?c dwindled to almost nothing, the fi?rst squad of the second platoon took over responsibility for security as the rest of the company began to settle in.

  And that was the moment when the legionnaires were grateful to be cavalry. Because even though the quads carried tons of ammo and supplies inside their cargo bays, there was still enough room for two squads of bio bods to get in out of the cold, and grab some sleep. For a few hours at a time, anyway, because people were constantly rotating on and off guard duty, which meant that cold air fl?ooded into both cargo bays on a regular basis. But all of them knew that the occasional wintry blast was nothing compared to the subzero temperatures the infantry had to cope with. Still, if the legionnaires were privileged in some respects, those benefi?ts were offset to a great extent by the maintenance the cyborgs required. Because fl?uids that fl?owed freely at thirty-six degrees, became viscous at sixteen degrees, and started to clot at ten below. And metal parts that would normally last for years would sometimes weaken and break as they were heated during the day and allowed to cool by as much as thirty or forty degrees at night. So once a variety of carefully shielded fi?res had been started, and the bio bods had been given a chance to wolf down some half-warmed MREs, it was time to pull out the tools and get to work. Because, having been served by a T-2

  all day, it was time for each bio bod to return the favor. Some of the legionnaires were certifi?ed techs, but all of them had at least nominal skills, and were expected to inspect their cybernetic mounts looking for worn actuators, leaky hydraulics, and loose fi?ttings. Then, assuming that everything was in good working order, it was time to rearm their T-2s. That activity included replenishing each cyborg’s magazines, cleaning the Trooper II’s .50-caliber machine gun, and running diagnostics on any other hardware their particular unit was packing, including energy cannons, fl?amethrowers, and missile launchers if such were authorized. All of this sucked up at least an hour and a half each evening, and was carried out with very little light, and half-frozen fi?ngers. Meanwhile, the med techs were expected to keep an eye on all of the cybernetic life-support systems, tweak them if necessary, and give medical care to their fellow bio bods on top of that! This was why the techs were rarely if ever assigned to guard duty. Nor were the NCOs and offi?cers exempt from such duties. So Santana was kneeling in the snow, fi?tting a new coupler to Deker’s left foot pod, when Private Volin emerged from the surrounding gloom. “The colonel wants to speak with you, sir. He’s on channel two.”

  “Roger that,” Santana said, as he came to his feet and stuck both hands under his armpits. He had gloves, but it was diffi?cult to perform fi?ne motor tasks while wearing them. Santana knew that the persistent needles-and-pins sensation in his fi?ngers was a warning of impending frostbite.

  “I’ll fi?nish up,” Volin offered, and went to one knee in order to work on the coupler. Captain Antonio Santana might be tough, but he was fair, and everyone in the company felt the same way. “If we take care of him—he’ll take care of us.”

  “Thank God,” Deker rumbled. “Some competent help for a change!”

  Santana gave the T-2 a one-fi?ngered salute, and left both legionnaires laughing, as he crossed the narrow compound to the point where Xiong had settled in over his legs. The quad was off-line at the moment, grabbing some sleep, but that didn’t prevent the bio bods from using the cyborg’s cargo bay.

  Santana slapped a pressure plate, which caused a side hatch to cycle open, and produced the usual chorus of groans as a blast of cold air invaded the otherwise-warm interior. The forward section of the cargo bay was taken up by cargo modules, but there were various nooks and crannies, all of which had been colonized by off-duty bio bods. Lines had been rigged so that hand-washed socks and underwear could dry, and the air was thick with the pungent odors of sweat
, wet clothing, and gun oil. “Sorry, sir,” Staff Sergeant Pool said, as she looked up from peeling pieces of dead skin off her toes. “We didn’t know it was you.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you,” the cavalry offi?cer said mildly, as he stepped over Private Gomyo’s supine body. “Although it would be a good idea to air this place out once in a while. I wish there was some way to capture the smell so we could use it on the bugs.”

  That generated some laughter as Santana made his way back to the tiny cubicle that was supposed to function as a command desk but was far too cramped to be of much use. He pulled a swing-out seat into position, sat down, and put a pair of large can-style headphones over his head, not so much for enhanced audio quality as for privacy. There was no way to know what subject Quinlan wanted to talk about. Quinlan’s face fi?lled most of the screen, but judging from what Santana could see in the background, the other man was in an offi?ce environment somewhere. “There you are,”

  Quinlan said waspishly. “It’s about time.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Santana said neutrally. “I came as quickly as I could.”

  Quinlan sniffed, as if to say that he had doubts about that, but left them unsaid as he made use of his leather-covered swagger stick to scratch his left temple. “General Kobbi put in a request for your services,” Quinlan said disapprovingly.

  “I can’t say that I appreciate losing an entire company to a wild-goose chase, but there isn’t much I can do about it, so be ready at 0800 tomorrow morning. That’s when the weather wizards predict that we’ll see a break in the cloud cover. A fl?y-form will pick you up. Tell Amoyo to proceed to Waypoint 27 and wait for you there. And don’t be late.”