Santana was about to say, “Yes, sir,” when the transmission came to an abrupt end, and electronic snow fi?lled the screen. So Santana removed the headset, made his way over to the door, and pulled his gloves back on. Then, having warned those in the immediate area, he slipped out through the hatch as quickly as he could. Quinlan clearly had reservations about whatever mission Kobbi had up his sleeve, and Santana did, too. Even though Amoyo was a good offi?cer, the legionnaire didn’t like being separated from his company for more than a few hours at a time. But there wasn’t anything Santana could do about the situation except load his XO down with well-intended advice and reinspect the perimeter before grabbing some shut-eye.
Some company commanders made it a habit to sleep in one of their quads, seeing that as a privilege of rank, but Santana preferred to spend every other night out in the open the way his troops had to. That was one of many reasons why the legionnaires respected him and looked out for him. As evidenced by the fact that anonymous individuals had already prepared a place for their captain between a crackling fi?re, and a sheet of scorched metal that was angled to refl?ect some of the heat back at him.
Having spotted his gear, Santana made a face. “What?
No turn-down service?” This served to let his benefactors know that the company commander appreciated what had been done and generated a chorus of chuckles as well. The legionnaires who were gathered around that particular fi?re were already in their bags as Santana entered his. Each legionnaire had his or her own theory about the best way to set up a Legion issue “sleep system.” The innermost layer of Santana’s “sack” consisted of a slick liner, commonly referred to as a “trash bag,” that allowed a soldier to slide into the bag with his or her boots on. And, if necessary, could serve as a body bag, too.
The liners also served to keep the inside of the actual bag relatively clean. That was nice after it had been used for a couple of months. But, rather than insert a blanket or some other type of liner into his sack to provide extra warmth, the way some people did, Santana had chosen to shove his sack into a Hudathan-sized bivvy bag “borrowed” for that purpose. All of which provided enough warmth so the offi?cer could sleep—which was what he was doing when the Ramanthians attacked. Having made his way downslope earlier, and located a pile of boulders that could serve as a forward observation post, Fareye had volunteered to stay while a steady succession of other legionnaires came and went. That was why the Naa and a bio bod named Purdo were huddled behind the rocks, sipping lukewarm caf from a thermos, when the fi?rst sounds were heard. The disturbance began with a series of crunching noises as feet broke through crusty snow, soon followed by the occasional clink of unsecured gear, and muted bursts of click-speech.
That was more than enough to bring Fareye out of hiding. And one look through his night-vision goggles was suffi?cient to confi?rm the Naa’s worst fears. Dozens of heat blobs were visible downslope and there was no question about who they belonged to. Fareye ducked, felt for the fl?are pistol, and pulled the device out. Purdo, who had complete faith in the noncom’s judgment, waited for orders. “Get ready to throw your grenades,” the Naa said. “Then, once those are gone, run like hell. And don’t stop.”
Purdo had questions, lots of them, but never got to ask any as Fareye pulled the trigger. The fl?are soared high into the sky, went off with a distinct pop, and began to drift downward. The device fl?ooded the slope with eye-aching bright light and shrill command whistles were heard as Ramanthian noncoms urged their troops forward.
When Purdo stood, he saw that at least a hundred whiteclad alien soldiers were fi?ghting their way upslope. Fortunately, the jungle-evolved bugs weren’t designed for traveling uphill through deep snow. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Fareye demanded, as he brought his assault rifl?e to bear.
“Throw your grenades!”
So Purdo threw his grenades in quick succession, and was proud of the fact that he had remembered to pull the pins, as a series of four loud explosions was heard. Enemy bodies were ripped apart as gouts of snow, blood, and broken chitin were hurled high into the air. The rest of the Ramanthians were forced to march through a grisly rain as the remains of their comrades fell around them. More alien soldiers went down as Fareye began to fi?re three-round bursts from his CA-10. Then, having emptied a magazine, the noncom turned to Purdo. “Okay! Now’s the time! Run like hell!”
The explosions woke Santana from a deep sleep. All three of the sleeping bags were equipped with rip-open closures. They came apart one after another as bursts of automatic fi?re were heard. Within seconds, both the offi?cer and his legionnaires were out of their sleep sacks, on their feet, and ready to fi?ght. “The hill!” someone shouted. “They’re coming up the hill!”
So Santana made his way over to the edge of the turnout, where Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich and others had taken cover behind the improvised barricade and were fi?ring downhill. “Keep it high!” the noncom roared. “Or you’ll answer to me!”
Santana saw why. Purdo and Fareye were only halfway up the incline. Ramanthian bullets kicked up spurts of snow all around the legionnaires, as they fought for purchase on the slippery slope, and lost their footing time after time. Darkness fell as the pistol fl?are burned out, but two even brighter lights appeared, as the quads sent 110,000-candlepower illumination rounds arcing over the valley below. The fl?ares glowed like miniature suns and swayed under small parachutes as they spiraled toward the ground.
“Run, goddamn it, run!” Staff Sergeant Briggs shouted from above, as Purdo managed to arrest the latest slide and start upwards again. But the bio bod hadn’t gone more than fi?ve feet before a slug hit him between the shoulder blades. The legionnaire’s body armor was suffi?cient to stop the projectile, but the force of the impact threw him forward. And that was when a burst of sustained machine-gun fi?re ate Purdo from below.
Santana swore as the heavy-caliber bullets followed the cavalryman’s legs up his waist and literally cut the bio bod in two. The good news was that Fareye had made it to the top of the slope by then, where Dietrich reached out to grab the Naa, and pulled him over the top of the barricade as bullets rattled on metal.
Amazingly, given the amount of fi?re they faced, approximately fi?fty Ramanthians were still on their feet and battling their way upwards. No longer constrained by the need to worry about their fellow legionnaires, the company opened fi?re with a vengeance. And with half a dozen T-2s standing almost shoulder to shoulder the sheer volume of outgoing fi?re was something to see. A lethal mixture of red tracer and bright blue energy bolts stuttered downslope, cut the advancing soldiers down, and washed the slope with their blood.
That was suffi?cient to produce a certain amount of satis- faction where the legionnaires were concerned. But Santana felt differently. Not only had one of his troopers been lost but the seemingly mindless ferocity of the attack worried him. What did it bode for the future? His people were good, very good, but would they march uphill into certain death? Would he? Maybe, but maybe not, which meant the chits would always have an advantage. At least some of the bugs wanted to die. And he, like those around him, wanted to live.
The regimental weather wizards were correct. The snow tapered off around 0400, the skies began to clear, and by 0730
the sun was out. But with no clouds to hold some heat down, the air grew even colder as the legionnaires struggled to boil water and ready themselves for the coming march. Santana battled the desire to reiterate all of the orders already given to Amoyo, took one last tour of the company, and was ready to depart when the fl?y-form appeared. Like both the T-2s and the quads, the streamlined aircraft was piloted by a living brain in a metal box. The cyborg was connected to both its fl?yable body and the outside world by a complicated system of computer-assisted electronics. Flyforms came in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. This one, which was clearly intended for the sort of mission to which it had been assigned, was equipped with helicopter-style rotors and a two-person in-line cockpit. “Watch your six,
sir,”
Amoyo said, as the aircraft landed on the road. “And have a hot shower for me!”
Santana waved as he ran for the fl?y-form, put his right boot into a recess intended for that purpose, and pushed himself up so that his shoulders were level with the cockpit. The backseat was empty, so Santana threw his AWOL bag in there, before taking a second step that allowed him to enter the front passenger seat. A few seconds later he was strapping himself in as the canopy slid closed and a female voice came over the intercom. “Welcome aboard, sir,” the cyborg said respectfully. “My name is Lieutenant Pauley. The estimated fl?ight time to Division HQ is one hour and twenty minutes. The surrounding peaks are too high for me to fl?y over—so we’re going to follow Route 1 out of the mountains. The bugs took a few potshots at me on the way in—so they’ll probably do the same thing on the way out. But don’t worry because I’m feeling lucky today! Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your fl?ight more comfortable.”
And with that the fl?y-form took off.
Santana spent the fi?rst fi?ve minutes of the fl?ight looking for signs of ground fi?re and marveling over how beautiful the surrounding mountains were, but having logged only a few hours of sleep the night before, and having been freed from any sense of responsibility for what took place around him, it wasn’t long before Santana’s eyelids grew heavy and the drone of the engine lulled him to sleep. When the skids touched ground, the resulting jolt came as a surprise and served to wake the offi?cer up. “Welcome to Division HQ,” Pauley said over the intercom. “And watch that fi?rst step. It’s a lulu.”
The canopy slid back, and the rotors went whop, whop, whop as they began to slow. By the time Santana retrieved his AWOL bag, and lowered himself to the ground, a couple of techs had arrived. “It looks like you took three rounds,” one of the legionnaires observed cheerfully, as he stuck his forefi?nger into one of the .50-caliber-sized holes located just aft of the passenger compartment. “I’ll bet that got your attention!”
Santana smiled politely, and thought about how long his nap might have been, as a six-wheeled utility vehicle (UV) pulled up next to the chopper. A rather plain clone was at the wheel and barely acknowledged his passenger as Santana tossed his bag into the back and climbed in next to her. The UV jerked into motion, whirred loudly, and pursued a serpentine course out across a vast expanse of duracrete. Assault boats, shuttles, and fl?y-forms were lined up all around them. But way off in the distance, half-obscured by the yellow-gray ground-hugging smog, a row of spaceships could be seen. There was a muted roar as a navy transport rose on its repellers, swiveled into the wind, and began to gather speed. It was gone moments later, as the ship began to climb, and was soon lost in the blue-gray haze. Judging from what he could see, Santana got the feeling that the Ramanthian navy wasn’t considered to be much of a threat. Because while there were plenty of antiaircraft batteries, lots of aircraft were parked close together and would normally constitute a class-A target. The UV left the vast expanse of heat-fused tarmac a few minutes later and entered a complex maze of tents, infl?atable shelters, and makeshift shacks built out of anything that was handy. Unlike the orderly manner in which the Legion’s base on Adobe was laid out, it appeared as though Division HQ’s twisting-turning streets had been allowed to evolve naturally, which meant that a lot of time would be wasted as newcomers got lost. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to the way the various military units were grouped either. Rather than put a company of tanks next to a maintenance facility, which would make sense, Santana noticed that some bozo had assigned a battalion of Seebos to camp there instead! Which raised another question. Given that most of the fi?ghting was taking place hundreds of miles to the east— why were so many resources sitting around Division HQ?
There was no way to know, as the UV was forced to stop for a security check, before being allowed to approach what had once been the spaceport’s terminal building. It was one of the few structures General Akoto had spared so his forces could use it. But having driven the bugs out, the clones had taken over, and it soon became clear that a bunch of REMFs (rear-echelon motherfuckers) were in charge. Was that General-453’s fault? Or was the Confederacy to blame?
There was no way to know.
As Santana exited the UV with AWOL bag in hand, a brace of smartly uniformed Seebos crashed to attention. Once inside the building, Santana was required to check in at the duty desk, where a spit-and-polish NCO located the visitor’s name on his screen, and summoned a young Seebo who might have been better employed at the front. Having received his orders, the soldier preceded Santana up a stairwell. The Ramanthians had nailed sheets of plywood over the stairs to make ramps, but most of it had been torn off by then, allowing both men to proceed unimpeded. The door to conference room 302 was open, and when Santana looked in, he saw that Colonel Quinlan, General Kobbi, and a Jonathan Alan Seebo were waiting for him. General Kobbi was the fi?rst to come over and shake hands. “You look like hell,” Kobbi said cheerfully. “And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”
“Thank you, sir,” Santana replied. “Fortunately, I feel better than I look.”
“And smell,” Quinlan said disapprovingly, as he came over to shake hands. “I believe you know Major Seebo-1,324?”
As it happened the legionnaire did know three-twentyfour. Both men had been stationed on LaNor during the Claw Rebellion, although Santana had been a lieutenant, and the clone a captain. “Of course!” Santana said enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“And you,” the major replied sincerely. “Although I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”
“I think we can promise you a hot shower and a drink at the O club later on,” Kobbi said, “but lunch is on the way. In the meantime I want you to meet someone else.”
So saying, Kobbi pointed a remote at a big wall screen, and touched a button. Video swirled, then locked up. The picture that appeared was that of a Jonathan Alan Seebo. Who, based on the name printed at the bottom of the frame, had been given the number: 62,666. “He’s a handsome devil,” Three-twenty-four put in. “You have to give him that!”
Kobbi laughed along with the others, but the general’s eyes were serious as he turned toward Santana. “Good looks aside, the man you’re looking at led a company of Seebos up to an allied fi?rebase, where he and his men not only murdered twentythree marines, but took hostages, and stole two tons’ worth of supplies. Prior to that, eyewitnesses claim that Colonel Six, as his subordinates refer to him, knowingly slaughtered civilians during guerilla-style attacks on enemy forces.”
“And that’s why you’re here,” Three-twenty-four added soberly. “Based on your combat record General Kobbi and I believe you’re the right man to track Six down and bring him in.”
“Or kill him,” Quinlan said offhandedly. “Which, all things considered, might be the better course of action. It looks like the food arrived. Let’s have lunch.”
11
Be careful what you wish for—you might just get it.
—A human saying of uncertain origins
Standard year circa 2000
PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The humans called it Death Valley. Which the Ramanthians found amusing since they thought the long, low, mostly barren depression was rather pleasant—not to mention the fact that it was safe from ground attack. Because there was nowhere for humans to hide. Which was why the invaders had chosen to establish a temporary base in the area called Stovepipe Wells, a mostly fl?at area that was home to the Third Infantry Division. The division consisted of more than ten thousand combat troops, two thousand support personnel, and more than one thousand aircraft. It was one of twenty such bases that the Royal Expeditionary Force had been able to establish on the planet. All of which made the Queen feel good as her shuttle swept in over a makeshift parade ground and hundreds of perfectly aligned habs to land a few hundred feet north of the infl?atable headquarters structure erected the day before.
>
The landings generated a miniature sandstorm that was still swirling when a hatch whirred open, and the Queen shuffl?ed down a ramp and onto the surface of the planet where the human race had evolved. It was pleasantly warm, which was to say 110 degrees in the shade, and the Queen’s ceremo- nial body armor glittered as she paused to look around. Members of the prestigious Imperial Guard lined both sides of the carpeted walkway that led to the headquarters structure. Behind them, still other soldiers supported T-shaped poles from which rectangular fl?ags hung. One for each of the swarms that had been combined to form a single society hundreds of years earlier.
It was a historic moment, which having been captured by the usual bevy of fl?ying cameras, would be beamed to planets throughout the empire so bedazzled citizens could see their warrior queen symbolically taking possession of Earth. The air was thick with the smell of wing wax, chitin polish, and mood-altering pheromones as the Queen nodded to a group of offi?cials, who had been waiting for the better part of an hour, and preceded them into the headquarters structure.
All of which was quite impressive but not enough to quell the misgivings that Chancellor Ubatha felt. Especially when he was well outside the infl?uence of the psychoactive chemicals that perpetually surrounded the royal and impelled even her most ardent critics to do her bidding. Because even though the human fl?eet had been destroyed, and the planet’s orbital defenses had been breached, the battle for Earth was far from over. The civilian population had proven to be a good deal more combative than anticipated, and that made it diffi?cult to settle in.
In fact, rather than simply allow themselves to be slaughtered, as many high-ranking offi?cials originally believed they would, the animals continued to fi?ght back! And rather effectively, too. . . . Which was one of the reasons why the invaders were camped in such a remote location. Because every time they attempted to occupy a city, the soldiers came under fi?re from the surviving elements of various military organizations, newly formed guerrilla groups, and heavily armed criminals. All of which meant that the Queen’s plan to occupy Earth without destroying it was still in question.
When Duty Calls lotd-8 Page 17