“Not anymore,” the Queen objected staunchly, as she eyed the tree line. “The wilding should have been over weeks ago.”
“True,” Ubatha replied patiently. “Except that once the aliens destroyed the processing centers, the nymphs were left on their own. And, in the absence of proper socialization, some of them turned feral.”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Fobor said defensively. “But having missed the point in their neurological development where the nymphs are most biddable, it’s been very difficult to work with them. Perhaps her majesty would allow me to show her one of the holding pens?”
The Queen thought the term “holding pen” was objectionable, but rather than strike out at the officer the way she wanted to, she managed to keep her temper in check. “Show me,” she grated.
So the royal entourage was invited to board armored cars, which passed through a gate and followed a dirt road into the jungle. Though unable to look up through the metal roof, the royal ordered the driver to open the vehicle’s windows. That allowed the Queen to peer out into the sun-dappled depths of the triple-canopy forest that surrounded them. It was an environment very similar to the equatorial zone on Hive, where the Ramanthian race had risen to sentience. The process had been heavily influenced by the fact that the species had been gifted with two types of females. Most females could lay a maximum of three eggs, thereby replacing one three-person family unit, while a small number, like the Queen herself, were physiologically capable of producing billions of new citizens. Just as her predecessor had. Not frequently, but every three hundred years or so, as the overall population began to level off or decline.
The general effect of that phenomenon was to push the race forward, but at the expense of social turmoil, and terrible famines. But not anymore, the royal thought to herself. Now we can hatch our eggs on planets like this one and protect the citizens of Hive from harm. That was the plan anyway, but owing to a series of unforeseen events, the local maturation process had been compromised.
There was a commotion as the convoy came to a halt, and troopers were deployed to form a protective ring around the Queen and her entourage as the visitors exited their vehicles. It was hot and humid, so the royal removed her green cloak, and threw it into the back of the armored car. That left her wearing light body armor over a sleek bodysuit. Not the sort of outfit the great mother would have approved of.
By that time Ubatha, as well as the rest of the royal party, had become aware of the acrid scent of urine and a low-pitched gibbering sound that emanated from someplace nearby. “Please follow me,” Commander Fobor instructed, and led the Queen’s entourage along a path that wound through the trees. Moments later the group emerged into a clearing in which heavy equipment had been used to dig three enormous pits. Each was about two hundred feet across, roughly fifty feet deep, and covered with wire mesh so the inmates couldn’t escape by using their wings. The ever-present fly cams darted out to capture shots of the facility, but were soon recalled, since it wasn’t the sort of video deemed appropriate for the empire’s citizens to see.
An observation platform had been constructed next to Pit One, and the rest of the party followed as Fobor shuffled up onto the flat surface. Meanwhile, down in the muddy cavity below, a pair of sharp-beaked nymphs were fighting to see which one of them would get to consume a chunk of raw meat. The rest of the prisoners, some twenty in all, made growling sounds and appeared ready to rush in if there was an opportunity to advantage themselves. “We capture them out in the jungle,” Fobor explained helpfully. “Then we bring them here, where our sociologists begin to work with them. Once a particular individual begins to demonstrate the right sort of behaviors, he or she is transferred to Pit Two, where further socialization takes place. Then it’s on to Pit Three, graduation into a crèche, and formal schooling.”
Fobor was obviously very proud of the system, and perhaps rightfully so, but when one of the combatants tore the other’s throat out, that was more than the Queen could take. There was a soft thump as the royal jumped down onto the ground, shuffled over to the gate, and ordered the guard to open it. And, being a foot soldier, the trooper did as he was told. That enabled the monarch to pass through the first checkpoint unimpeded and begin the circular journey down to the second and last gate before anyone could stop her. Fobor was horrified and began to shout orders to his troops. “Don’t let her through! Prepare to fire on the prisoners! If you hit the Queen, I’ll kill you myself!”
But Ubatha, who knew the Queen as well as anyone did, had noticed a change down in the pit. Not only were the juveniles staring at her majesty—they were strangely silent. “Keep your troops on standby,” the Chancellor instructed. “But allow the Queen to enter.”
“But the nymphs will tear her apart!” the soldier objected.
“Do what I say, or you’ll regret it,” Ubatha grated. And suddenly Fobor became conscious of the fact that while some of the royal’s bodyguards were aiming their weapons at the nymphs—others were pointing their assault rifles at him!
Meanwhile, as the sovereign arrived in front of gate two, she was not only unaware of the drama playing itself out up on the surface but completely focused on the young Ramanthians in the pit. She could smell the acrid odor of their urine, see the intelligence in their shiny black eyes, and feel the blood-bond she shared with them.
Fobor gave the only orders he could, the gate swung open, and the Queen entered the pit. The nymphs were motionless at first, and seemingly unaware of the targeting lasers that roamed their bodies as the regent plowed her way through six inches of urine, feces, and mud to reach the very center of the pit. Then, as the juveniles absorbed the rich amalgam of pheromones that surrounded the royal, a seemingly miraculous change came over them. A soft humming sound was heard as heads dropped, wings seemed to sag, and they shuffled inwards. It soon became clear that rather than attack the monarch, as Fobor feared, each juvenile hoped to make physical contact with her. And as the Queen reached out to touch her adopted children, she sang to them in a language as old as the first nest, and filled the air with the chemicals that they needed and wanted.
It was the most amazing thing Fobor had ever seen, and he said as much. “Yes,” Ubatha agreed thoughtfully, as the royal worked her magic. “We are truly blessed.”
3
The few active rebels must have the qualities of speed and endurance, ubiquity and independence of arteries of supply. They must have the technical equipment to destroy or paralyze the enemy’s organized communications.
—T. E. Lawrence
“The Science of Guerrilla Warfare”
Standard year 1929
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
The town of Strat’s Deep was located at the foot of the Hebron mountain range, right on top of a large deposit of nickel, about forty miles north of Tow-Tok Pass. There were a number of ways to reach the settlement, but given the fact that the Ramanthians were patrolling both the sky and the roads, Colonel Six and his men chose to approach the mining community via an old foot trail. Having arrived on a broad machine-carved ledge high above the town, the officer ordered his troops to take cover in an abandoned mine shaft, and scanned Strat’s Deep through his binoculars.
The town consisted of forty identical homes, all of which were bunched together on the west side of the railroad track that had been built to haul iridium away. Though no expert on the subject, Six knew iridium was a by-product of nickel and that there were two ways to extract the element from the planet’s crust. The first approach was called open-cut mining, which wasn’t practical given the steep terrain, and the fact that the ore was deep underground. For that reason a series of side-by-side shafts had been driven deep into the mountainside where the newly mined material was loaded onto the low-profile tunnel trucks that were used to bring the ore down to the processing plant. And, judging from what Six could see through his binoculars, the mine was still in operation. Was that because Ramanthians had occupied the town and were forcing the
humans to work? Or because the locals hadn’t received instructions to shut the operation down? The latter was certainly possible given all the confusion.
The answer soon became apparent as the officer heard a loud thrumming sound and ducked as a Ramanthian shuttle passed overhead. The transport completed one circuit of the settlement before putting down at the center of the shabby town square. Six was still recovering from the shock associated with the aircraft’s sudden appearance when a squad of Ramanthians emerged from the administration building and herded a group of humans toward the shuttle. Meanwhile, what might have been boxes of rations or ammo were being unloaded and placed on the ground. Once that task was completed, the prisoners were forced to board the alien ship, which lifted off a few moments later. Six was hidden in a cluster of boulders by the time the shuttle passed overhead and departed for the south.
The officer waited for a full five minutes to make sure that the aircraft wouldn’t circle back before leaving his hiding place and crossing the ledge. Two heavily armed Seebos were on guard just inside the entrance to the mine and nodded to their CO as he entered. The rest of the company was camped about a hundred feet back and well out of sight. Lieutenant Seebo-790,444, better known to the troops as Four-Four, looked up from the pot he was tending. The junior officer looked much as Six had twenty years earlier. “Pull up a rock, sir. Your tea will be ready in a minute.”
It felt good to sit down, and as Six held his hands out to collect some of the fuel tab’s excess heat, he knew the chill in the air was nothing compared to what winter would bring. “So,” the younger officer ventured. “How does it look?”
“The town is crawling with bugs,” Six answered gloomily. “It’s my guess that they were dropped in during the early hours of the invasion.”
“So you were right,” Lieutenant-44 mused, as he poured steaming-hot water into a metal mug. “They’re after the iridium.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Colonel Six observed as he accepted his share of the tea. “I can’t think of any other reason to attack this slush ball.”
Four-Four took a tentative sip from his mug, found the brew to his liking, and cupped the container with both hands. His breath fogged the air. “So what’s the plan?”
“We’ll wait for nightfall, go down into the valley, and kill every chit we find,” Six replied coldly.
The junior officer raised an eyebrow. “And then?”
“And then we’ll cut the tracks, blow the processing plant, and seal the mine. Winter’s coming, so it will be a good six months before the Ramanthians can reopen the facility. Assuming we don’t kick their assess off the planet before then.”
Lieutenant-44 was silent for a moment as if considering what his superior had said. “What about the workers?” he inquired seriously. “There could be reprisals.”
Colonel Six remembered the townspeople who had been loaded onto the Ramanthian shuttle for transportation to who knows where. “Yes,” he answered soberly. “Based on reports from inside the Confederacy, reprisals are extremely likely. Those who can fight will be asked to join us. Those who can’t will create places to hide in old mine shafts like this one. And the locals know where they are.”
Four-Four wasn’t sure how people would survive something like that but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself.
The clones spent the afternoon catching up on sleep, cooking a communal meal, and maintaining their gear. Once the sun had set, the guerrilla fighters followed their commanding officer out of the mine shaft and down a weather-eroded access road toward the dimly lit town below. Thanks to the night-vision goggles they wore, everything had a greenish glow, but the soldiers were used to that, and quickly split into platoons. The first platoon, under Colonel Six, made its way toward the administration building. Meanwhile the second platoon, under Lieutenant-44, was headed for the processing plant.
Having had the town under observation all afternoon, the Seebos had a pretty good idea where most of the Ramanthians were, but there were other problems to cope with. Not the least of which was the necessity to eliminate all resistance without giving the bugs a chance to call in reinforcements. Fortunately, the clones had the element of surprise working in their favor. But they had something else going for them as well—and that was the strange, almost supernatural, relationship that existed between them. Because having been created from the same DNA, and raised with replicas of themselves, the Seebos were like fingers on the same hand as they ghosted between the town’s mostly darkened buildings.
There was little more than a series of soft pops as the sentries stationed outside the administration building fell, and the clones rushed to surround the structure. The clones knew that the facility had two entrances, and once both of them were covered, Six led a squad up onto the front porch. The door seemed to open on its own as one of the bugs sought to exit. So the officer shot him in the face and pushed his way into the vestibule beyond.
A second door opened onto a reception area, and three Ramanthians were already headed his way as Colonel Six entered. The officer took them down with short bursts from his submachine gun (SMG) and shouted, “Kill the radio!” as the rest of the squad came in behind him.
“Got it, sir!” a corporal replied as he fired three rounds into the rugged com set that occupied one of the desks. The alien RT took exception to that, produced a pistol, and was trying to bring the weapon to bear when the corporal fired again. The bug jerked spastically, fell over sideways, and began to leak green digestive goo onto the floor.
“Good work,” Six said grimly. “Find the rest of them.”
“You came!” a female voice said gratefully, as the rest of the squad went looking for additional chits. “Thanks be to the founder!”
That was when Colonel Six turned to see that half a dozen townspeople had been tied to chairs that lined one of the walls. The individual who had spoken was a member of the Mogundo line and therefore an administrator. The rest were Ortovs. A hardy line commonly used for industrial applications. “How many of you are there?” the officer demanded brusquely.
“Twenty-six,” the woman replied crisply. She had brown skin, flashing black eyes, and a full figure. The officer imagined what she would look like without any clothes on, felt the usual response, and pushed the image away. Such thoughts were less frequent than they had been twenty years earlier but still plagued him.
The sound of muted gunfire interrupted the officer’s thoughts as the second platoon dealt with the Ramanthians in the processing plant. “Please! Stop the fighting!” one of the Ortovs pleaded. “They have our children!”
“She’s right,” the administrator put in, as a soldier cut her loose. “The Ramanthians took hostages earlier today.”
Six nodded. “Yes, I know. And I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Gather your people together. . . . Tell them to pack cold-weather gear, plus food that won’t spoil, and bring it here. But only what they can carry on their backs. Because the bugs will return, and when they do, they’ll kill everyone they find.”
“But what about our children?” the Ortov sobbed. “The ones they took?”
Under normal circumstances, on planets like Alpha-001, clone children were raised in crèchelike institutions where they could be properly socialized. But that wasn’t always possible on less-developed planets like Gamma-014, where children were occasionally assigned to an appropriate community at the age of two, to be raised within the embrace of the profession to which they would one day belong. But that practice could lead to unacceptably strong bonds between individual adults and children, as was clearly the case where the distraught Ortov was concerned. Because even though she hadn’t given birth to a child, she clearly felt as if she had, and that was wrong.
“Maybe the children will survive,” Colonel Six allowed, as the Ortov was freed. “But I doubt it. The Ramanthians regard mercy as a weakness, and if we’re going to beat them, we’ll have to be just as hard as they are. Now stop crying, get your thing
s, and hurry back. I plan to pull out thirty minutes from now.”
The woman began to sob, and might have remained right where she was, had two of her companions not taken the miner between them and half carried her away.
“We have some explosives,” the administrator said helpfully. She was determined, and Six liked that.
“Good,” the Seebo replied. “That means we can save what we have. Perhaps one of your people would show us where to place them?”
The process of placing the charges, and pulling the civilians out of Strat’s Deep, took the better part of an hour, rather than the thirty minutes that Six had been hoping for. But it went smoothly, and once both the townspeople and the Seebos were assembled on the ledge above town, it was safe to trigger the charges. A series of muffled thuds was heard, and the onlookers felt the explosions through the soles of their boots, as a rockslide clattered down a neighboring slope. “All right,” Colonel Six said grimly. “The bugs will come looking for us tomorrow. Let’s find a place to hide.” And with that, 150 people vanished into the night.
Seven hours later, when the Ramanthians assigned to hold Strat’s Deep failed to check in as they were supposed to, and attempts to contact them failed, a quick-reaction force was dispatched. It wasn’t possible to assess the amount of damage inflicted on the mine shafts from the air. But there was no mistaking the fact that the railroad tracks had been severed—and the processing plant had been reduced to a pile of smoking rubble.
And when members of the elite Hammer regiment hit the ground, the town was empty except for the row of twenty-six Ramanthian bodies laid out in front of the admin building, and the large numbers scrawled across the facade. The paint was red, the numerals were “666,” and none of the troopers knew what they meant.
When Duty Calls Page 5
