A Call to Arms

by Alan Dean Foster

  The massive mutual discharge of energy produced very little destruction. One of the defending warships was damaged. One of the attacking vessels was totally destroyed.

  Ground-based forces obliterated several of the rapidly descending shuttles, overwhelming their defensive capabilities. The rest achieved touchdown, landing on four of the six populated continents. From then on victory or defeat was a matter of hourly reports.

  Despite his newly bestowed official appointment as a high-ranking liaison-at-large, Will felt eerily divorced from the conflict. There was little for him to do except answer the questions of the occasional reporter visiting the base looking for an angle. Will knew little of combat, communications, or international relations, and right then the services of a composer were not much in demand.

  He took to wandering aimlessly through the greatly enlarged base, whose functions had in many ways been superseded by outposts in Washington, Moscow, Brussels, Tokyo, Rio, Nairobi, and Sydney as Humanity sought to coordinate the defense of its world. International communications were regularly disrupted by the invading forces. The battle quickly became fragmented as central control was lost.

  This did not quite result in the demoralizing disruption the Amplitur had anticipated.

  The Crigolit unifer slowed her floater and waited for the rest of her unit to catch up. One by one they cut their drives to study the terrain ahead. Individual scanners showed nothing but sandy yellowish hills devoid of all but rudimentary vegetation. It was an unpleasant place for a fight but an important one, for not far ahead lay an important hydroelectric installation.

  This entire miserable planet was an impossible place to fight, she reflected. No landmass as she knew it, no unified power grid, and dozens of tribes to contend with instead of a central government that the Amplitur could bloodlessly take control of. Why, you couldn’t even speak properly to the enemy, who spoke hundreds of languages. It was civilization as asylum.

  Other units were supposed to be swinging down from the north to prevent native reinforcements from arriving. Of course, the installation could have been destroyed by long-range fire, but then it would someday have to be replaced. Much more practical to capture it intact.

  They had encountered no opposition since leaving the base. Hopefully any local defenders had been shipped north to contend with the descending force. Local farmers hid when the unit shot past, except for the grubs who threw rocks and sticks which invariably missed their intended targets. The Amplitur would change that, the unifer knew.

  The assault would have been easier from the air, she reflected, but native technology included a bewildering and surprisingly effective plethora of surface-to-air projectiles. In fact, the immense store of native as opposed to imported Weave military weaponry had been a disconcerting surprise.

  As yet no one had been able to supply a rationale for the existence of so many native weapons. The planet showed no signs of conflict. It was almost as if the natives found something aesthetically appealing in the design and construction of mass weapons of destruction, which were far more sophisticated and deadly than their overall level of technology seemed capable of producing. Their architecture was primitive, as were their agriculture and art. Only in the manufacture of weapons did they excel. While this aberration was intriguing, it posed unexpected problems for those charged with local pacification.

  She pushed the scanner up on her head, to the base of her antennae. Hardly surprising that their tactics should be as unconventional as their civilization. One never knew what they might try next. A unit in the field had to be prepared for anything.

  She was just issuing the order to advance when the Tuaregs erupted from their self-contained foxholes to obliterate ninety percent of the invaders. The rest were caught as they attempted to retreat.

  Distribution of the recently developed air-conditioned foxholes by a Japanese-American consortium had begun only a few weeks earlier. They were impervious to enemy scanners and completely portable. The Tuaregs collapsed them and radioed for pickup while floaters exploded on the surrounding sands and immolated Crigolit popped and crackled. A couple of the robed fighters scavenged among the alien corpses, much as their ancestors had done a thousand years earlier in the wake of ambushed caravans.

  It was time to return to base, the subjoiner decided, no matter what the damned command group said. Her troops could not advance through soggy ground that threatened to swallow them in their field armor. They needed aerial transport. The trees around her were so close together and the vegetation so dense that floaters could not maneuver through it.

  Perhaps the natives could walk on mud, but her fighters could not. They had been told that this would be an excellent location for a forward base from which to infiltrate nearby urban concentrations, one that could easily be concealed from the air and expanded at leisure. Resistance in the region was spotty and poorly organized. With good reason, the subjoiner thought. No one voluntarily makes their home in hell.

  Their landing had gone unopposed. They had encountered none of the screaming, madly gyrating native aircraft that had so devastated other landing parties, nor any of the heavily armored ground vehicles with their projectile weapons and big guns. Who could have imagined that a world not part of the Weave or the Purpose would wait groaning beneath the weight of unused war material? It defied reason as well as experience.

  Behind the scout team, engineers were already digging in, or trying to. Solid ground was a scarce commodity hereabouts. But with time they would overcome the initial difficulties, providing a base from which attacks could be launched on the major urban centers to the east. Then control of at least one portion of this world’s shattered landmass would be assured.

  A call sounded from up ahead. The subjoiner strode forward, made her way slowly and cautiously between the huge trees and their buttressing roots.

  A procession of fallen forest giants blocked the way. It would be simpler to go around than take the time and energy to cut a path, she decided. Flipping her visor back down she examined the surrounding jungle, eyescanners searching for any large infrared splotches that might signify the presence of a sniper or enemy scout.

  Something made a wet splatting noise against the side of the subjoiner’s armor. She looked down to see liquid spreading where a pellet of some kind had burst. As she drew her sidearm her squad hunkered down in the muck.

  A simple gesture of defiance in the absence of effective opposition, she decided. Common enough among disorganized primitives.

  Suddenly she dropped her weapon and began dancing on all four legs, screeching madly and slapping at her side. The pale liquid was dissolving her body armor, hissing its way through the flexible shielding. She fought to free herself before it ate completely through.

  Instead of rendering assistance, her subordinate joined the rest of the squad in racing for the nearest armored transport. Once inside and safe from anything up to and including a tactical nuclear strike, she made her way grimly to the operations center of the huge vehicle.

  “How many of them are there?” she asked the technician in charge.

  “We cannot say. This region is alive with life, much of it Human-sized. The readout is confusing. Certainly there are some out there. I…” She stopped, began to wheeze loudly. The subordinate turned nervously.

  “What is it, what’s going on?”

  “Air’s failing!” yelled another tech. “Right on top of us they are, plugging the ventilation system.”

  This is ridiculous, the subordinate thought wildly. This one transport boasted enough weaponry to level a small city. But there was no small city to level outside, no concentrations of enemy troops or vehicles, no low-flying aircraft. Only a few natives. Hisses of frustration filled Operations as Ordnance let loose with a variety of weapons.

  None of which were of much use when those responsible for aiming them couldn’t breathe. The recycling system kept the air inside the transport clean and pure in the presence of radiation, biologic agents, or toxic
gas, but the external vents had to be clear. Coughing and choking, she tried to give orders.

  “Use the armatures!” Those mechanical limbs were designed to clear just such blockages, but something had jammed them as well. The subordinate realized they had no choice but to go outside to clear the obstructions.

  As hatches popped and the Crigolit began to emerge, the Bantu fighters were waiting for them.

  The Ashregan officer in charge of the expedition hated fighting in the mountains as fervently as did his troops. It was cold, and while one’s body armor maintained a respectable internal temperature the terrain and climate combined to make the going difficult. Some of the canyons where they were operating were narrow and winding enough to intimidate the most experienced floater pilot.

  The leader buzzed for attention as he activated his rapid-fire cannon. “Only a few of them,” he reported as he checked his visor scan. “Off to the right twenty degrees.”

  “We’d better have a look.” The officer angled his floater and his squad followed.

  There were four of the natives, living in what had to be a temporary abode: a small domed structure fashioned of some thin, light material. Stakes secured it to the ground in the middle of the meadow. Though only one native was visible, the scanners had no trouble sensing the others through the thin fabric walls.

  As soon as the floaters swung into view, the juvenile made a noise and ducked inside.

  The officer was the only one equipped with a translator programmed to interpret the local language. As his squad set down near the shelter, he activated the unit and waited for the natives to emerge.

  There were two adults and two juveniles. They huddled together as the officer and two flankers cautiously approached. The rest of his squad waited on their floaters, nervously scanning the surrounding terrain.

  The adults were taller than Ashregan or Crigolit. With the exception of the Molitar they were taller than any of the civilized races. Their size did not intimidate the officer. They were not armed. The adult male had his arm protectively around the female.

  “What is it?” the native asked uneasily. “What do you want with us?”

  “We know that an important military installation is located in this vicinity,” the officer declared through his translator, “deep within one of these mountains. Scattering devices have prevented us from pinpointing it.” The juvenile male favored the Ashregan with a succession of contorted expressions. The officer ignored him.

  “Do you know where this facility is?”

  “I’m just a fireman,” the native replied. “We’re just up here camping out. I had three days’ vacation coming. You gotta have some time off, time to get away from things. Especially with the invasion.” He looked past the officer, at the hovering floaters.

  “Where’d you guys come from? There aren’t supposed to be any of you around here.”

  “Why don’t you go back where you came from?” the female said before her mate could silence her. “Why don’t you leave us alone?”

  The officer decided that this was neither the time nor the place to explain the beauty and nature of the Purpose to her. When the Amplitur arrived they would do it more efficiently. Dissemination of the Purpose was not his assignment.

  He told them as much, hoping they might understand. They were intelligent, even if their society was hopelessly primitive. But not their military organizations, he reminded himself. This world was a study in bewildering contrasts.

  “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man muttered. “I’m just a fireman. We’re just camping out.”

  The officer raised his sidearm and aimed it at the juvenile female, who clung to her mother’s leg. “If you do not tell me what you know of this installation’s location I will kill your youngest offspring.” The Amplitur would have disapproved, he knew, but there were no Amplitur in this forlorn place; only him and his troops.

  The adult female gasped and clasped both arms around the juvenile, who began to make loud wailing sounds while generating moisture from her eyes. Native fear reaction, the officer surmised. The adult male took a step forward, halted when the two flankers pointed their weapons at him.

  “Listen to me. This won’t gain you anything. Do you know what a fireman does? When things burn I put them out. I’m not a military man, I’m not even in the Reserves. I don’t know anything.”

  “You are lying. All of you people are familiar with your local military facilities. Your entire society has organized for this conflict.”

  “Not us,” the native insisted. “Is there any fighting in this area? Do you see any guns? You can check our tent if you want.”

  “We are interested in information, not weapons.” The officer gestured and one of his flankers went to check the shelter. He was back in a minute.

  “No weapons or communications devices, sir.”

  The officer indicated acknowledgment, again directed his attention to the natives. “I see that you are afoot. That tells me that you live in the immediate area. Difficult to believe therefore that you would be unaware of a major military installation.”

  “Why? The army doesn’t publicize the location of its bases. Why the hell should I know anything about it?”

  The officer fired once, scorching a black line on the ground close to the feet of the juvenile female. The older one screamed, looked frantically at her mate.

  “Tell them! Go on, Jeff, tell them. They’ll find out anyway, sooner or later. It’s not our job to shield the installation. They’re the ones with the weapons. Let them do the fighting.”

  “I can’t do that, Trace.” The man was obviously wrestling with conflicting emotions.

  The officer aimed the muzzle of his gun at the juvenile female’s forehead, whereupon the adult female began remonstrating with her mate even more violently.

  The man hesitated, dropping his head along with his voice. “It’s in the south flank of Mt. Harrison.” His eyes came up, burning. “It won’t do you any good. It’s heavily defended. There are Massood in there, too. And they put in some new stuff a few weeks ago that you bastards don’t know anything about.”

  “Mt. Harrison,” the officer murmured, consulting the topographic schematic on his visor. “Which one is that?” He gestured with the sidearm. “Quickly.”

  The man gestured defiantly. “About a mile west of here this canyon forks. Take the north branch and follow it to its end. From there you can see several peaks. Harrison is the highest.”

  The officer considered shooting them all, but his training in the Purpose decided him against it. These four presented no threat. Without communications devices they could not warn their fellows, and from what the officer knew of the region it would take them days to walk to the nearest facilities. By that time heavy weapons would have targeted the enemy installation and extirpated it.

  They reached the side canyon rapidly and turned north. The cliffs were steep but not vertical, so the floaters were able to make good progress. Scanners reported only bare rock ahead.

  They had been fortunate to encounter the isolated family group. The officer could empathize with their desire to escape the pressures of combat. Under identical circumstances and without the Purpose at stake he might have acted similarly. The two juveniles would make fine converts someday, peaceable and understanding. Unlike their barbaric, unenlightened parents.

  Wheeling smoothly around the canyon’s curves, they never saw the fine net that blocked their way. It was fashioned of new ultraweb mesh, invisible to their visor scanners. At the speed they were traveling, the last of them could barely slow in time to avoid smashing into his fellows.

  Not that it mattered, once the massive weights at the corners of the net were sent tumbling into the canyon. Entangled floater pilots fought helplessly within the mesh, struggling to find a way out. Floater engines stalled and flared. Weapons burned inadequate holes in the wispy material as net, floaters, and Ashregan plunged toward the bottom of the canyon nearly a thousand feet below.


  Firing wildly, one weapons operator struck a colleague’s entangled vehicle. It exploded, destroying two more. By the time the mass of screaming soldiers and machines struck canyon bottom all were enveloped in flame.

  Emerging from concealment, Humans strode to the edge to stare at the still burning bodies and vehicles far below. Those on the western ramparts waved to comrades opposite, men and women on both sides of the abyss acknowledging the success of the ambush.

  Atop the eastern cliffs one man pushed up his cap and tucked his red-and-black flannel shirt back into his pants as he addressed a tiny communicator.

  “Lukas, tell Denver we got another bunch.” Far below something boomed dully. “No survivors. No, I don’t think they had time to get a warning off.” Camouflaged microdishes relayed his words through the mountains, shielded from orbiting scanners.

  “One more thing. Get ahold of the Sorrell family back on Clover Ridge and see if you can talk ‘em into spending some more time camping. They’re pretty good at rustling up business.”

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mature-absent-Leg did not mind the name. The limb had been lost in a juvenile accident, and it was a matter of confidence that upon regeneration as an adult the need for a change of identification was not felt. Besides, supreme Amplitur bioengineering had assured that the regenerated leg was indistinguishable from the original three.

  Repeat-close-Looker stood nearby, contemplating the one-way security screen which separated them from the small chamber beyond even as last-minute checkouts were run on the activated recording equipment. Both Amplitur worked hard at controlling their thoughts, but it was impossible to mute their anticipation completely. After all, this was to be their first opportunity to confront one of the natives in person.

  Some apprehension had been expressed by members of Mature-absent-Leg’s staff at the Commander’s decision to conduct the interview with only a single companion for support. Their concerns had been dealt with. They were safe now in Underspace and it was a task which could not elegantly be delegated. Mature-absent-Leg awaited the forthcoming confrontation eagerly. Repeat-close-Looker projected similar feelings.