When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  A report was written, approved, and passed up through the chain of command. And, when it appeared on Okoto’s computer screen, the general actually read it, a fact that would have amazed the lowly file leader who authored it.

  The numbers “666” held no particular meaning for Okoto, but the officer was a student of human warfare, and widely read. Which is why he went looking for a certain file, brought it on-screen, and scanned for the passage he had in mind. It read:

  “Many people think it is impossible for guerrillas to exist for long in the enemy’s rear. Such a belief reveals lack of comprehension of the relationship that should exist between the people and the troops. The farmer may be likened to water and the latter to the fish who inhabit it.”

  The text had been authored by a man named Mao Tse-Tung. And he had been dead for a long, long time. But Okoto could tell that someone else was familiar with the revolutionary’s writings as well. Someone who was very, very dangerous.

  PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  President Marcott Nankool and his staff were quartered in the equivalent of a large if not especially posh hotel, which the Hegemony’s State Department ran for both the convenience of visiting dignitaries and its own intelligence service. The entire building was bugged, including conference rooms like the one that the visitors had been forced to meet in, which was why all of them were shooting the breeze, catching up on administrative tasks via their data pads, or simply staring into space as a team of four military technicians worked to sanitize the room. No doubt the clones would disapprove of the cleansing, but they couldn’t very well complain about it without admitting that they had been spying on their guests.

  The conference room was a long, rectangular space that had no architectural interest whatsoever, except for the gigantic floor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the south wall and allowed Christine Vanderveen to look out over an angular cityscape. Thanks to a very effective weather-management system, it rarely rained during the day. That meant the founder’s architects had been able to count on generous amounts of natural light and calculate the way that shadows would caress their buildings before constructing them—all of which was unique to clone society insofar as Vanderveen knew.

  Having located all the audio pickups, neutralized the photosensitive wall paint, and eradicated the tiny pinhead-sized robo cams that had been roaming the room, a harried-looking naval tech approached Legion General and Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly III. Although Vanderveen didn’t know the officer well, she had seen him on many occasions over the years, and was surprised to see how much older he looked. He still had his mother’s gray eyes and his father’s athletic body. But his hair was shot with streaks of white, lines were etched into his face, and his skin was very pale, like someone who rarely gets any sun. “The room is clean, General,” the tech told him. “But we can’t guarantee that it will stay that way for more than an hour or so. The clones are sure to launch some sort of counterattack through the ventilation system.”

  Booly nodded. “That should be sufficient. Thanks for all the hard work.”

  The tech didn’t receive many “thank-yous,” especially from senior officers, and was clearly pleased as he returned to the back of the room. Vanderveen watched the general walk over and say a few words to Nankool. Here we go, the diplomat thought to herself, as the president nodded. All of the small talk quickly came to an end as Nankool stood. “Okay, everybody,” the chief executive said, as he eyed the people assembled before him. “We have a counter from the Hegemony—so let’s get to it. There’s some good news and some bad news.”

  The announcement produced a chorus of groans, which Nankool acknowledged with a good-natured grin. “I’ll give you the good news first. Alpha Clone Antonio-Seven has agreed to a military alliance with the Confederacy. Beginning with a joint task force to liberate Gamma-014.”

  Vanderveen joined the rest of the staff in a loud cheer. But Booly, who harbored serious misgivings about the new alliance, was noticeably silent. “And the bad news?” the officer inquired cynically, as the noise died away. “How bad is bad?”

  It was the moment that Nankool had been dreading. There was nothing he could do but tell the truth. “Given that Gamma-014 is one of their planets, and that roughly sixty percent of the joint task force will consist of clone troops, the Hegemony wants to put one of their generals in overall command.”

  Booly looked down at the floor as if to momentarily hide his expression before bringing his eyes back up. Everyone in the room knew that the joint chiefs opposed such an arrangement, and for some very good reasons. Although the Hegemony’s soldiers were good, the Seebos had little if any experience where joint operations were concerned. That, combined with a general air of superiority, and the very real possibility that clone officers would show favoritism toward their own kind, meant things could and probably would go wrong—the kinds of things that could cause a whole lot of casualties for the Confederacy. So, even though Booly’s voice was neutral, there was no question as to how the general felt. “And your position, Mr. President?”

  Booly had been loyal to Nankool, very loyal, and was a bona fide war hero to boot. Not to mention the fact that his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, was the billionaire president of the star-spanning company that her uncle Sergi Chien-Chu had founded, and was therefore quite influential. So the politician wanted to make the general happy. But the alliance was important, critically important, even if the price was high. So there was nothing Nankool could do but look Booly in the eye and say what he believed. “I wish it were otherwise, General, but we need this alliance, and I believe we should agree to it. I promise you that after we take Gamma-014, the joint chiefs will be in control of the campaigns that follow.”

  A lump had formed in the back of Booly’s throat, but he managed to swallow it. The president’s mind was made up, that was clear, and given the extent of his wartime powers, Nankool had the authority to create such alliances when necessary. The Senate would have to ratify the agreement, but that would take months, and chances were that the battle for Gamma-014 would be over by the time they got around to it. For better or for worse. “Sir, yes sir,” Booly said dutifully. “Has a general been chosen?”

  Vanderveen saw Nankool’s expression brighten as it became clear that Booly wasn’t going to challenge his authority. “Why, yes,” the politician answered cheerfully. “The officer the Hegemony put forward is General Seebo-785,453. Do you know him?”

  Booly winced, and the staff officers seated around him were heard to groan. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Nankool responded grimly. “And I’m sorry you don’t approve. But that’s how it is—so we’ll have to make do. Besides, once you and your staff put your minds to it, I’m sure you’ll find ways to manage him the same way that you manage me!”

  That got a laugh from the civilian staff, but Vanderveen could tell that the officers were disappointed, and felt sorry for them. Because now that she knew a soldier the way she knew Santana, the diplomat had a much deeper appreciation of the way in which the military was often squeezed between the vagaries of political necessity, and the realities of war.

  With the alliance in place and the question of command having been settled, it was time to address logistics. The Confederacy was already hard-pressed, and the need to dedicate scarce resources to Gamma-014 meant military assets would have to be withdrawn from some other location. But which one? Each possibility entailed risk.

  Eventually, all of the arguments and counterarguments began to blur, and Vanderveen’s attention began to wander. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the window at the far end of the conference room and the cityscape beyond. That was when the diplomat noticed the people on the roof across the street. And as she watched, they muscled a long cylindrical object up onto the waist-high wall in front of them. Then, having secured both sides of whatever the object was to the building, they pushed it over the side. As the roll of plastic fell free, a blue banner was revealed. The white letters were at least
six feet high, and spelled out the words “FREEDOM NOW!”

  Given its location, there was no doubt about whom the protesters were trying to communicate with, and since no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the sign, Vanderveen raised a hand. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” the diplomat said. “But it appears as though someone is trying to send you a message.”

  The entire group followed Vanderveen’s pointing finger over to the opposite building and not a moment too soon. Clone security agents were already on the roof by that point. It took less than five minutes for the secret police to arrest the protesters, pull the banner back up, and disappear from sight. All of which was both interesting and disturbing. Because as the Confederacy sought to prop the Hegemony up—there was the very real possibility that it had already started to crumble.

  PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The Legion’s base on Adobe had been constructed after the first Hudathan war, and was laid out in concentric circles, with the spaceport, which was designated A-1, located at the very center of the sprawling facility. Santana was supposed to meet General Kobbi on C-2, Sector 3, which was dedicated to supply, a simple word that embraced everything from mess kits to the state-of-the-art NAVCOMPS that naval vessels required to find their way through hyperspace. Rather than hike all the way in from F-3, where the 1st REC was quartered, or try to requisition a vehicle, Santana had chosen to ride Sergeant Omi Deker instead. It was a very good decision since the T-2 knew his way around the base.

  So as the cyborg jogged along one of the main roads that radiated out from A-1, the helmeted officer was free to look around. It was not only hellishly hot, but eternally dusty, despite the water the big tanker trucks laid down four times a day. Inflatable habs lined the streets. They looked like half cylinders laid on their sides, and in spite of the fact that they weren’t intended for permanent use, some of them had been there for ten or even fifteen years.

  And, if there were plenty of things to see, there were plenty of things to hear as well. As the two legionnaires passed through territory that belonged to a variety of different commands, they were exposed to a cacophony of sound as power wrenches chattered, servos whined, engines rumbled, and a series of sonic booms rolled across the land. Discordant and chaotic though the base seemed to be, Santana could feel the underlying sense of purpose that bound everything together. Because even the lowliest private knew that one of the Hegemony’s planets had been taken by the Ramanthians, and that the clones had agreed to an alliance, which meant many of them would wind up as part of the task force being assembled to take Gamma-014 back.

  The announcement received mixed reviews in the O club, because, in spite of the fact that most officers understood the importance of the alliance, many of them had doubts about the Hegemony’s military prowess. Except for Santana, that is, who had been sent to one of the clone worlds immediately after graduating from the academy, and fought side by side with the Seebos on LaNor years later. The cavalry officer’s train of thought was interrupted as Deker took a right onto C-2. “We’re almost there,” the noncom announced over the intercom. “That’s the hab up ahead.”

  The Supply Command structure wasn’t much to look at, and was far too small to house much more than a few desks, but a quick check confirmed that they were in the right place. Once the T-2 came to a halt, Santana removed his helmet, left it on a hook intended for that purpose, and jumped to the ground. A cloud of fine red dust billowed up around his boots as he pulled a garrison-style cloth “piss cutter” onto his head in lieu of the bulky blue kepi Legion officers normally wore. “Take a break, Sergeant. I’ll contact you via my pocket com when it’s time to leave.”

  “Roger that, sir,” the T-2 replied. Deker had friends everywhere—and Supply was no exception. And maybe, just maybe, the cyborg could beg, borrow, or steal a pair of knee couplers. Because even though it was against regs to hoard parts, some items were harder to get than others, and couplers were in short supply. And Deker had no intention of trying to fight the Ramanthians with one or both of his knees locked in place.

  Once inside the hab, Santana discovered that the interior was not only blessedly cool, but reasonably free of dust, which was something of a miracle. A corporal showed the cavalry officer into an office where both General Kobbi and a middle-aged colonel were seated. The supply officer had bushy eyebrows, flinty eyes, and a horizontal slash for a mouth. Kobbi made the introductions as the staff officer stood. “Colonel Hamby, this is Captain Santana. He was one of my platoon leaders on Savas.”

  Everyone knew about the raid on Savas, and Hamby’s respect for the tall, dark-haired officer went up a notch at the mere mention of it. “Glad to meet you, Captain,” the supply officer said gruffly as the two men shook hands. “Welcome to Regimental SupCom.”

  Santana said, “Thank you, sir,” and waited to hear why he had been summoned.

  But no explanation was forthcoming as Kobbi stood, and said, “Come on. There’s something we want to show you.”

  So Santana had little choice but to follow the other officers down a short hallway to a bank of elevators. Suddenly the cavalry officer understood why the surface hab was so small. The supplies were underground, an arrangement that reminded the officer of Oron IV, as the elevator lowered them down into the interconnected caverns that lay below the C-Ring. When the platform came to a stop, and the door slid open, they entered the subterranean equivalent of a gigantic warehouse. Or that portion of the ring-shaped underground storage facility assigned to the Legion—since both the navy and Marine Corps controlled portions of the facility as well. Lights marked off regular intervals above them, a small army of specially equipped androids whirred about, and the air temperature verged on frigid.

  An electric-powered cart was waiting for them. Hamby slipped behind the controls, and Kobbi sat in the passenger seat, which left Santana to jump in the back. He braced himself and hung on as the supply officer put his foot to the floor. The vehicle whirred loudly as it carried them past twenty-foot-tall storage racks, into a maze of neatly stacked cargo modules, and past a battalion of shrink-wrapped T-2 war forms.

  Finally, just as Santana was beginning to wonder when the journey would end, Hamby turned into a side corridor and came to an abrupt stop. The senior officers got out, so Santana did likewise, and followed them over to a line of tables. What looked like a full kit had been laid out, starting with uniforms, boots, and body armor, followed by night-vision equipment, weapons, com gear, and much, much more. In short, everything that a bio bod would require for combat.

  But Santana was mystified. After all, why would a general and a colonel bring him all the way down into an underground storage facility, just to look at gear that he and every other legionnaire were already familiar with? Kobbi nodded as if able to read the younger officer’s mind. “So, Captain,” he said. “Knowing full well that we are about to take a little trip to Gamma-014, and having done your homework, what’s wrong with this picture?”

  Both of the senior officers watched expectantly as Santana ran a critical eye over the kit. That was when the cavalry officer remembered what he had read about the Hegemony planet and put one and one together. “It’s going to be winter when we land,” Santana said. “And the uniforms on the table were designed for desert use.”

  “Bingo,” Hamby said grimly. “And, because LEGCOM informs me that we won’t be able to get any winter gear until after the campaign begins, I’d say that the 1st REC is going to freeze its collective ass off.”

  “As if we don’t have enough problems,” Kobbi put in gloomily.

  “Now,” the supply officer said, as he motioned for the other two to follow him. “Take a look at this!”

  Santana arrived at the very last table to find that a complete set of cold-weather camos had been laid out on the table, including thermal underwear, heated socks, insulated vests, wind- and snow-resistant outerwear, and heavy-duty boots. All of which were identical to what the Legion would issue to its bio bod
s except for one important detail: Rather than the white-gray camo pattern that the Legion preferred, the uniforms spread out in front of the cavalry officer were white and black, which was the iteration the navy issued to its personnel when they were forced to work on wintry planets like Algeron. Just one of the ways in which the various branches sought to preserve their precious identities. But what, if anything, did that have to do with Santana? He was mystified. “That’s some nice-looking gear, sir. Naval issue if I’m not mistaken.”

  “No, you’re correct,” Hamby responded evenly. “Ironically, given our situation, the navy storage facility on the far side of the C-Ring has tons of that stuff. More than they will be able to use during the next five years.”

  “But they don’t want to give it to us,” Kobbi said disgustedly. “Because an unforeseen emergency could arise—and a certain admiral wants to cover his ass.”

  By that time the true purpose of the meeting was starting to become apparent. Having attempted to obtain the cold-weather gear through official channels, and having been refused—Kobbi and the regimental supply officer were contemplating a so-called midnight requisition. And, rather than order Santana to steal the supplies, which would be illegal, they were informing him of the need in hopes that he would take it upon himself to effect the necessary “transfer.”

  The unofficial assignment was a compliment of sorts, since it implied a great deal of trust on Kobbi’s part, but it was also unfair. Since the Legion could court-martial Santana if he was caught—while the more senior officers would probably go free. He could say “no,” of course, by simply ignoring the entire conversation, which was clearly the smart thing to do. Even if that meant losing Kobbi’s sponsorship.

  But that would mean that the 1st REC’s bio bods would hit the dirt on Gamma-014 dressed for a summer stroll just as the temperature started to drop and snow fell out of the sky. The result would be unnecessary casualties. Which was why Santana was going to do the wrong thing for what he believed to be the right reasons. Kobbi detected the slight hardening of the cavalry officer’s features and knew he had the right man. “That’s unfortunate, sir,” Santana said evenly. “Thank you for the briefing. Is there anything else?”