When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  “We’re going to need something big,” Tappas said, as he shouted into Foley’s ear. And the officer realized that the sailor was correct. And, while there weren’t many vessels that qualified as “big,” the officer saw one that did. A freighter, which judging from the activity around it, would soon depart. The problem was that the ship was of Hudathan rather than human design. And while the big aliens were allies, they were more than a little insular, and somewhat unpredictable. Would the alien crew allow humans to board their ship? Especially a mob of humans? There was only one way to find out.

  Foley took off, with Tappas hot on his trail. The rest followed. Their feet made a thundering sound as the group followed the curving walkway past a number of locks to the one where two armed Hudathans stood guard as a train of heavily laden carts passed between them. Were the aliens loading something that already belonged to them? Or stealing what they could? There was no way to know, and Foley didn’t care as he came to a stop in front of a hulking guard. Both Hudathans raised their weapons and aimed them at the mob. At least half the humans responded in kind. A fact that provided Foley with some welcome leverage.

  “Hi there,” Foley began. “We need transportation to the surface. . . . You can invite us aboard, or we’ll shoot you and commandeer the ship. Which would you prefer?”

  There was a pause while one of the aliens spoke into a lip mike. And another pause as he listened to a response. Then, having been ordered to do so, he lowered his weapon. His voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “You can board—but do so quickly.”

  Foley was the first one through the hatch, and the mob surged in behind him. A short flexible tunnel led between a pair of pressure doors and into a well-lit hold. A series of loud clangs was heard as muscular Hudathans wrestled the cargo modules off the carts and secured them to D-rings set into the deck. A Klaxon began to bleat as the last humans managed to squeeze themselves into the hold, and massive pressure doors slammed closed behind them.

  With no warning whatsoever, the alien ship lifted free of the deck, turned on its axis, and began to accelerate. Foley, who was being crushed from all sides, closed his eyes. The naval officer had a good imagination, which meant he could visualize the scene outside the battle station, where the Ramanthians would be lying in wait.

  And sure enough, as the boxy freighter shot out through one of two enormous hatches and entered space, the bugs opened fire on her. The Hudathan vessel’s screens flared, and the ship shook like a thing possessed, as the captain took evasive action. But rather than be thrown around as they could have been, the refugees were so tightly packed, that they held each other in place.

  What happened next was wonderful and horrible at the same time. Wonderful, in that the fugitives were spared, but horrible because thousands of people were killed when Battle Station III exploded. Later, after there was time to reflect, some would maintain that the devastating explosion had been triggered by members of the space station’s crew, who, having defeated all of the reactor’s safeties, had intentionally pushed the device into overload. The action destroyed both the platform and the Ramanthian troopships that were alongside it.

  Others took the position that such theories amounted to wishful thinking and amounted to jingoistic nonsense. The truth, they claimed, was that Battle Station III, like IV, had been destroyed by the enemy. This meant the loss of their troopships was the result of poor judgment rather than a suicidal act of heroism.

  One thing was clear, however, and that was the fact that the fleeing freighter had been able to escape during the aftermath of the blast, saving more than a hundred lives. That meant Foley could open his eyes, give thanks for the fact that he was still alive, and ask himself a very important question. Given the fact that the Ramanthians seemed intent on occupying Earth—how could an entrepreneur like him profit from such a horrible calamity?

  NAPA VALLEY, PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  It was dark in the western hemisphere, so when Battle Station III exploded, it was like the birth of a small sun. Light strobed the surface of the planet below, which caused people such as Margaret Vanderveen to look upwards and gasp in surprise. Because even the most pessimistic of news commentators had been telling the citizens of Earth to expect a battle that would last weeks, if not months, ending in a draw if not an outright victory for the Confederacy’s navy. That was why many people were still in a state of denial even as the Ramanthians destroyed the last ships sent up to oppose them.

  But not everyone. As the newly formed sun was snuffed out of existence, Margaret not only knew that thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people had died, but what would happen next. Because her husband, Charles Winther Vanderveen, was a senior government official presently stationed on Algeron. And her daughter, Christine, was a diplomat, and more than that, a survivor of many months spent in a Ramanthian POW camp. That meant the society matron not only knew what was coming, but what to do about it, starting with the very thing that most of her wealthy Napa Valley neighbors would be most reluctant to do. She must leave the lovely three-story Tudor-style house, not to mention all of the treasures within, and run like hell. Because if safety lay anywhere, it was to the northeast, along the border with what had once been the state of Nevada. A place where the Vanderveen family had a rustic vacation home.

  The problem was that the potential refuge lay hundreds of miles away. And while the vast majority of the population were still in a state of shock, that wouldn’t last for long. Once they went into motion, all the freeways and roads would be transformed into hellish parking lots. So even though Margaret’s heart was heavy with grief for those who had given their lives attempting to defend Earth, she knew it was important to get moving. And do so quickly.

  The family had six full-time servants. And having polled them, Margaret discovered that while four wanted to join their families, two preferred to remain with her. They included Thomas Benson, who served as the estate’s maintenance man, and Lisa Qwan, a young woman who was married to a naval rating currently serving aboard the Epsilon Indi. Wherever that ship might be . . . And, since John, the family’s domestic robot wasn’t sentient, he had no choice but to come as well.

  So in keeping with the needs of her party, as well as the likelihood that they would be on their own for a sustained period of time, Margaret chose the estate’s sturdy four-wheel-drive pickup truck as being the best vehicle for the trip. Her employees were instructed to load the truck with food, tools, and her husband’s gun collection.

  Then, having already selected a pistol for herself, Margaret went upstairs to the master bedroom. The safe was located at the back of the closet. She and her husband typically kept a few thousand credits on hand, which should be spent first, since they could be rendered worthless later on. That was when Margaret’s jewelry, and her husband’s coin collection, might very well come into play.

  Then, having slipped a computer loaded with all of the family’s records and photos into her pocket, the society matron took one last tour of the house in which her only child had been raised. There were dozens of beautiful vases, boxes, figurines, hangings, mementos, and paintings to choose from. But in the end it was the carved likeness of Christine that Margaret chose to take with her. Not only because it was beautiful but because Captain Antonio Santana had given it to her. And, if the legionnaire managed to live long enough, he might become her son-in-law one day.

  With the box clutched under one arm, and towing a suitcase loaded with toiletries with the other, Margaret left through the front door. The air in the entryway was thick with the odor of spilled fuel. The heavily loaded truck was waiting in the driveway. A big horse trailer was hooked up behind it. “Are you sure about this?” Benson wanted to know, as Lisa took charge of the suitcase. “What if we’re wrong? What if the bugs never come?”

  “Oh, they’ll come,” Margaret predicted darkly. “And looters, too . . . So let’s get this over with. We need to cover a lot of ground before dawn. The Ramanthians w
ill be hunting by then. . . . And a lot of people are going to die.”

  So Benson lit the old-fashioned lantern that had been sitting in the barn for generations. The buttery light served to illuminated his craggy, weather-beaten face from below—and made his normally benign features look stern. Having walked up to the front door he threw the lantern inside. There was an audible whump as glass shattered and the open flame made contact with the fuel-soaked carpet. The smoke alarm began to bleat as fingers of fire explored the interior of the house. Soon the entire house was engulfed in flames as a lifetime of memories went up in smoke.

  But the truck was on the road by then, and Margaret refused to look back, as the headlights bored twin holes into the night. “Look!” Lisa exclaimed, as she peered through a window. “Shooting stars!”

  Margaret knew that the bright streaks weren’t shooting stars. They were pieces of wreckage that, having hit the upper atmosphere, were starting to burn. The battle for Earth had been lost.

  ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS, NEAR PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Everyone aboard the battleship Regulus had something to do. Everyone except the Queen, that is, who stood with her back to the ship’s wardroom, looking out over the planet below. Based on reports received by hypercom, the Mars colony had been destroyed, efforts were under way to hunt the Jovian prospectors down, and not a single Confederacy ship had been sent to help Earth. And, as far as Earth orbit was concerned, the former moon base was little more than a radioactive crater, two of the battle stations had been bypassed, and two had been destroyed, thereby opening a path along which her aerospace fighters and troop transports could safely reach the surface. Thousands of these ships were already entering the atmosphere. During the next few hours, they would begin a systemized attack on the planet’s surface installations. Military bases first, followed by civilian power plants, and targets of opportunity. Because without electricity, the humans would quickly turn on each other, thereby saving her troops a lot of casualties, and hastening victory. Which, based on preliminary reports, would come within a matter of days.

  There had been grievous losses, of course, well in excess of the more optimistic estimates. Not the least of these were the troopships that had been destroyed along with the human battle station, the loss of two destroyers during ship-to-ship combat, and the almost incomprehensible destruction of the carrier Swarm. It had been rammed by a Class III container ship nearly twice her size. Not a military ship, but a civilian vessel, named the Maylo Chien-Chu. The freighter had been destroyed, but more than a thousand Ramanthians had also been killed.

  Even with those losses in mind, the attack was still a success given that Earth was not only exposed for the taking, but the Queen’s larger goal had been realized. Which, when complete, would eventually turn human beings into an endangered species. With little more than a few million of the disgusting creatures eking out a marginal existence along the rim, and constantly on the run from the Ramanthian navy, as they were pushed farther into the unknown. The thought brought the monarch a moment of pleasure as a bright light blinked down on the surface and half the city of Chicago disappeared.

  8

  My business is stanching blood and feeding fainting men; my post the open field between the bullet and the hospital.

  —Clara Barton

  Nurse and founder of the American Red Cross

  Standard year 1863

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  Marine Firebase 356 (MF-356) was situated on top of a softly rounded hill that had been denuded of all vegetation and crowned with a multiplicity of improvised bunkers. MF-356’s purpose was to keep an eye on the highway that twisted snakelike through the valley below and, if necessary, bring it under fire from a pair of 105mm howitzers and a surface-to-surface missile launcher. There were mortars, too—which would raise hell with anyone stupid enough to attack the hill. But MF-356 was more than a tube farm. It was also home to the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Regiment, of the Marine Expeditionary Group. Which meant the base had its own landing pad, a supply dump, and a small field hospital. All of which made 356 interesting to Colonel Six and his Seebos. Because as far as Six was concerned Confederacy free breeders were only one rung above the Ramanthian free breeders, and the Alpha Clones had been wrong to enter into an alliance with them. Which meant if it became necessary to kill some marines to obtain supplies for his men, then so be it.

  Having watched the firebase for the better part of three days, Six knew that the time to strike was at hand. Two of battalion’s rifle companies, along with roughly half the weapons company, had been airlifted off the hill that morning. Judging from the full load-outs that the off-world troops were packing as they boarded the assault boats, the marines were going to be gone for a good two or three days. That left one rifle company, half a weapons company, and a variety of rear-echelon types to hold what the jarheads sometimes referred to as “Motherfucker-356,” which, if subjected to a conventional infantry assault, they would probably be able to do. Especially if air support was available.

  But Six and his company of seventy-six men had no intention of launching a conventional attack. Having seen everything he needed to see and confident that his plan would work, Six lowered his glasses and pushed himself back into thick brush. The Seebos were waiting.

  A raw, two-lane dirt road led down from the top of the hill that the firebase sat on to the paved highway below. But, with the exception of the foot patrols that the marines sent out to keep an eye on the surrounding neighborhood, the path was rarely used because just about everything came and went by air. That was a quicker, and for the most part safer, way to move equipment and personnel around, now that the allies owned the sky. All those conspired to make sentry duty especially boring for Lance Corporal Danny Tovo and his best buddy, Private Harley Haskins, as they stood guard at the main gate. Both were dressed in summer-weight camos, even though it was almost freezing, and the weather wizards were predicting snow flurries for later in the day. The long johns that the CO had purchased for them helped some, but what the leathernecks really needed was the parkas General-453 had promised, but never delivered.

  Still, the CO had authorized a makeshift heater, which consisted of a fifty-gallon drum filled with fuel-soaked dirt and whatever wood scraps happened to be available. It was positioned next to the largely symbolic pole gate, about a hundred yards outside the ring of razor wire and the constantly shifting crab mines that were supposed to keep the bugs out.

  Primitive though the device was, the additional heat was welcome, and both marines were standing right next to the barrel when Haskins frowned. “Hey, Tovo,” the private said. “What the hell is that?”

  Tovo followed the other jarhead’s pointing finger, looked downhill, and spotted a column of troops marching up the dirt road. Clones from the look of them—all dressed in cold-weather gear. That impression was confirmed when Tovo raised his glasses to take a second look. “Call the captain,” Tovo instructed. “And tell him that we’ve got company.”

  Fifteen minutes later Marine Captain Arvo Smith was standing next to the burn barrel, warming his hands, when the first of the clones arrived. Jets of lung-warmed air drifted away from nearly identical faces, and their gear made gentle creaking sounds, as the Seebos came to a halt. Colonel Six was at the head of the column and waited as the marine officer came out to meet him. “Good afternoon, sir,” Smith said politely, as he delivered a crisp salute. “I’m Captain Smith. . . . And this is Marine Firebase 356.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Six lied. “I’m Colonel-420, and this is A Company, 102nd Airborne. That’s what we’re calling it anyway. . . . The truth is that my men were originally part of five different units. All of which got chewed up and spit out when the bugs landed.”

  “I’m glad that you and your men made it through,” Smith said sympathetically. “Here’s hoping things improve soon.”

  “Not for us,” Six replied inclusively. “Not unless we join the na
vy.”

  That got the expected laugh. “So, how can I help?” Smith wanted to know. “We weren’t expecting you—so I don’t have any orders.”

  “We’re on our way east,” Six said truthfully. “To harass the enemy. We know this country, and they don’t. So once we close with the bastards, we’ll have an advantage.”

  The plan sounded iffy to Smith. Especially given the number of troops the clone had at his disposal. But who was he to argue with a full bird? “Sir, yes sir,” Smith said respectfully.

  “So what we need is some MREs, a few thousand rounds of ammo, and medical treatment for a couple of men who have infected wounds. Then, if you’ll let us stay the night, we’ll be out of here in the morning.”

  Everything the other officer said made sense, and the clones were allies, so Smith was tempted to approve the request himself. But the battalion commander could be an asshole at times, especially where command prerogatives were concerned, so why take a chance? Having put the clones on hold, Smith walked a few yards away and activated his radio. It took the better part of five minutes to get an okay from the CO along with a lot of unsolicited advice—most of which Smith planned to ignore as he went back to speak with the man he knew as Colonel-420. “Sorry about the delay, sir. . . . Lieutenant Colonel Suki told me to welcome you to Firebase 356 on his behalf, and invited you to use his quarters. So, if you and your men will follow me, we’ll get you settled.”

  Six nodded politely, let out an inaudible sigh of relief, and waved his men forward. The computer-controlled crab mines, which were located to either side of the zigzagging road, made scrabbling sounds as they crawled back and forth. Six knew that the potentially lethal devices would flood the path during the hours of darkness, thereby preventing enemy forces from finding their way into the firebase. Hopefully, assuming that everything went according to plan, there would be no need to deal with the self-propelled explosives on the way out.