“No, sir,” Santana replied honestly, as his breath fogged the air. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Nor have I,” Kobbi said grimly. “Not even on Savas. But, as we haul our miserable asses back into space, I’d feel a whole lot better if we took Colonel Six along with us. Or, failing that, if we buried the treacherous piece of shit right here. Am I clear?”
The cavalry offi?cer found himself staring into a pair of very dark eyes. They looked like gun barrels. “Yes, sir. You are.”
“Good,” Kobbi said. “Six and his Seebos are long gone. I want you to pull out before the others, head up the road, and catch the bastard. He has a lot to account for, including dead marines, dead civilians, and a couple of hostages. Not to mention his impersonation of General-453. Although I must admit that I liked his version of the general a lot better than the real thing! If it hadn’t been for the reserves Akoto had tucked away, we would have kicked their pointy asses.
“Anyway, see what you can do, but don’t stray too far. . . . Because when I call for the evac to begin, time will be short—and there won’t be any second chances. See Giles on your way out. He’ll give you some written orders and a high-priority pass signed by me. Show it to any sonofabitch stupid enough to try and get in your way.”
Santana knew that the fi?rst troops to go back up the road were likely to run into some of the stiffest resistance, but there wasn’t anything he could do other than nod, and say,
“Yes, sir. We’ll do our best.”
Kobbi grinned. “See that you do. . . . Dismissed.”
Once again Santana felt grateful for the heat that Deker gave off—even if it did leave his ass out in the cold. The two of them were standing next to the road as Alpha Company began the long journey to the west. Lieutenant Amoyo, Sergeant Matos, Sergeant Telveca, Corporal Han, and Private Xiong had all been killed in action during the assault on Yal-Am. In the wake of the battle, Hoyt-11,791 and fi?fteen of her thirty-one CVA conscripts had attached themselves to Alpha Company, along with a squad of stray marines, and a Seebo transportation platoon that still had two half-tracks. The vehicles would be extremely useful if the company was going to catch up with Colonel Six. Lieutenant Mitch Millar passed fi?rst, began to pick up speed, and disappeared beyond the veil of softly falling snow. His orders were to scout many miles ahead, keep his sensors peeled for any sign of Ramanthian troops, and fi?nd Six. It was something the recon ball was uniquely qualifi?ed to do. Next came Sergeant Suresee Fareye, and his T-2, Private Ka Nhan, who were also acting as scouts and would try to give advance warning of potential ambush sites, road damage, and anything else Santana would want to know about. The scouts were followed by Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich on Corporal Stacy Subee, and the fi?rst squad of the fi?rst platoon which, due to casualties, was the only squad in the fi?rst platoon. It consisted of four bio bods and fi?ve Trooper IIs in addition to Dietrich and Subee.
Then came the reassuring whine-thud of heavy footsteps as Private Lupo, the company’s sole remaining quad, lumbered up the road. The marines were safely tucked inside his cargo compartment, where Santana imagined some were starting to feel the fi?rst symptoms of motion sickness. But it beat the hell out of walking—and the offi?cer knew he wouldn’t hear any complaints.
The huge cyborg was followed by the half-tracks, loaded not only with supplies, but with Hoyt and her CVA troops. Lieutenant Gregory Zolkin and Sergeant Mark Tebo were right behind them, followed by what remained of the second platoon. Sergeant Jose Ramos was in charge of the rearguard, which included two bio bods, and three reasonably intact T-2s. That force should be strong enough to counter anything that could catch up with the fast-moving company from behind.
It wasn’t perfect. Santana knew that. But it was the best he could do. As Ramos marched past, the company commander sent Deker forward on the fi?rst of what would eventually be dozens of trips up and down the length of the column. Because that was the only way to enforce the proper intervals, make sure that people were alert, and keep morale up. Even though the company had traveled the wintry road before, it looked entirely different now, partly because they were going the other way and partly because of the additional snow. And as more of the white stuff continued to fall, visibility was limited to a hundred feet or so, and the monotony of it caused Santana’s thoughts to drift. First to Vanderveen, who might be anywhere, then to her mother, who was trapped on Earth. If Margaret Vanderveen was still alive—which seemed doubtful.
A couple of hours passed like that, with Santana battling to maintain his focus, while the company covered fi?fty miles or so. They were up off the fl?atland and well into the foothills, when the attack came. It was a crude affair, conceived by a group of desperate CVAs, who, lacking any sort of heavy weaponry, managed to roll half a dozen boulders down a steep embankment. The plan was to disable one or more of the vehicles in order to obtain food and ammo. The low-tech ambush had gone undetected because the clones were well hidden. The boulder barrage was followed by the insistent pop, pop, pop of small-arms fi?re as a fusillade of poorly aimed bullets swept the surface of the snow-covered road. But, crude or not, the attack was successful in that one of the bouncing rocks killed Private Sig Gomyo, and disabled T-2 Private Rin Ibo, before it jumped into the air and continued downslope.
The response was swift and uncompromising. A force of enraged T-2s ran uphill, located the CVA bandits in among the rocks, and put them down. Dietrich, who was right behind them, was forced to yell, “Cease fi?ring!” over and over in order to conserve ammunition as some of the legionnaires continued to fi?re on dead bodies. One of the bio bods pulled Ibo’s brain box, and carried it into Lupo’s cargo bay, where the cyborg was hooked up to the quad’s life-support system. The entire incident was not only stupid and unnecessary, but a measure of how desperate some of the allied forces were. It was another danger for Santana to worry about. There was darned little chance that anyone would collect Gomyo’s body, not in the midst of a full-scale retreat, so like thousands of legionnaires before him, the bio bod was lowered into a shallow, unmarked grave. The burial was followed by a quick prayer and a fl?urry of orders as the company resumed its journey. The other corpses, those belonging to the clones who had been so thoughtlessly sent to Gamma014, would soon be covered with a shroud of white snow. Two hours later the column had covered another fi?fty miles and it was getting late. Since it wouldn’t be prudent to travel at night, Santana wanted to set up a defensive perimeter while there was light left to see by. So when Fareye alerted him to a short side road that led out along the top of a ridge to a spacious lookout spot, the cavalry offi?cer seized on the opportunity. While it might be necessary to camp on the surface of the road before the journey was over, Santana had no desire to do so any earlier than was absolutely necessary. Such spots were hard to defend, and there was no way to know what might come down the road in the middle of the night.
The company followed Fareye and Nhan out along a snow-covered two-lane road onto the hilltop beyond. As Zolkin and Dietrich began to organize the unit’s defenses, Santana took a stroll around the perimeter. The snow was unmarked by footprints. That was good. But the slopes that fanned out away from the lookout point weren’t very steep, and that was bad. The legionnaire knew from previous expe- rience that the bugs could advance over that sort of terrain at night and were brave enough to do so. Lacking crab mines, all Santana could do was position T-2s around the perimeter, park the quad and the tracks in the middle of the turnaround, and establish an outpost (OP) at the point where the side road intersected the highway. Because the last thing they wanted was to be cut off from the main thoroughfare and isolated on a vulnerable hilltop. As the temperature continued to drop, and darkness crept in all around them, the men and women of Alpha Company prepared to eat, sleep, and carry out some much-needed maintenance. Given their circumstances it was all they could hope for.
Meanwhile, a hundred miles to the west, Lieutenant Millar was stalking his prey. It was something the cyborg was uniquely qualifi?ed
to do because he could fl?y, “see” in the dark, and mask himself electronically. The capabilities that had already enabled the scout to spot three groups of Ramanthians, all hidden within striking distance of the highway, waiting for an opportunity to attack. That was interesting, and well worth reporting, but secondary to his primary mission to fi?nd Colonel Six and his band of renegades.
But the clones had a tremendous head start—and Millar had orders to stay within a hundred miles of Alpha Company. So, once darkness descended, and the cyborg found himself a hundred and twenty miles out, he was about to turn and head back when there was a brief burst of static, followed by a low-power radio transmission. The exchange was brief, but suffi?cient to pique the cyborg’s curiosity, and trigger a full spectrum sweep of all the possible frequencies. That effort revealed more activity, which the recon ball traced to what had been a power transfer station, but was now little more than a pile of bombed-out rubble. A useful pile of rubble, however, because as Millar got closer, it soon became clear that he was onto something. Even though it was dark, and the scout had to rely on infrared imaging, it quickly became apparent that the ruins were being used by a company-sized force of humans.
But were they the humans he was looking for? That was by no means certain given the fact that dozens of military units were strung out along the highway. In fact it was quite possible that this one had been on its way to join allied forces in Yal-Am when the Ramanthian poop hit the proverbial fan. In order to fi?nd out who he was dealing with, Millar began to work himself into the dimly lit ruins, being careful to remain in the shadows whenever possible. There were sentries, but none of them saw the recon ball as Millar passed over their heads.
Having penetrated the inner part of the encampment, Millar caught glimpses of a heat source so intense it had to be a fi?re, and continued to work his way inwards until he found himself within three standing walls. There was no roof, but the walls served the soldiers as a windbreak, which had been put to good use. Viewed from the cyborg’s perspective, eight man-shaped heat blobs were seated around a much brighter heat blob, eating their dinners and talking. All Millar had to do was back his spherical body into a convenient hole and listen in on the conversation below. It quickly became obvious that the humans were clones, who by some means unknown knew about the revolution and were trying to deal with it.
“I don’t know,” the fi?rst soldier said doubtfully. “The founder’s plan worked for all these years. Why change it?”
“Because we don’t have any say,” the second man replied critically. “And if we’re going to do all the fi?ghting, we should have a say.”
“But what if no one wants to do the fi?ghting?” the fi?rst Seebo wanted to know. “What then?”
“Maybe the Santos will want to fi?ght,” the third clone put in.
That caused laughter all around. “That’ll be the day!” the second Seebo exclaimed. “All they do is go to meetings and boss everyone around.”
There was a moment of silence as one of the men put a piece of wood on the fi?re. A column of sparks shot up into the air and spiraled away. “I’ll tell you one thing,” the fi?fth soldier said. “The old man has the right idea. . . . He won’t be cold tonight.”
“That’s for sure!” number three said enthusiastically.
“How would you like some of that? Every single one of us will be free breeders once this is over.”
“Odds are that we’ll be dead once this is over,” the fi?fth man said darkly, as he blew on cold fi?ngers. “General-453 is an idiot.”
“Was an idiot,” the second Seebo said, as he took a sip of coffee. “He’s dead by now.”
“And a good thing, too,” the sixth soldier added. “I wonder what Six is doing?”
“Screwing the doctor’s brains out,” the fourth man answered cheerfully. “The lucky so and so.”
“That would be hypocritical,” the fi?rst Seebo observed.
“Him being a true believer and all.”
“Well, you know what they say about the true folk,” the seventh clone put in. “They’re truly horny!”
That produced gales of laugher and an opportunity for Millar to slip away unnoticed. But not uninformed. Because he not only knew who the clones were—he knew that the female hostage was sleeping with the man who had taken her prisoner! A man who, according to his profi?le, hated free breeders. Except for pretty free breeders. Or so it appeared. But hearing is one thing—and seeing is another. So as the snow continued to fall, the recon ball continued to ghost through the ruins, searching for Dr. Kira Kelly. 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 fl?ashlight 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 offi?cer 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 offi?cer 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 fl?oor. “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 fi?rst 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 fi?nd 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 fi?ne.”
“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 tw
o 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 fl?eeing allies and Yal-Am beyond. The nearest aliens were no more than fi?fteen 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 evervigilant 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 offi?cer 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.
When Duty Calls lotd-8 Page 29