When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  So once a variety of carefully shielded fires had been started, and the bio bods had been given a chance to wolf down some half-warmed MREs, it was time to pull out the tools and get to work. Because, having been served by a T-2 all day, it was time for each bio bod to return the favor.

  Some of the legionnaires were certified techs, but all of them had at least nominal skills, and were expected to inspect their cybernetic mounts looking for worn actuators, leaky hydraulics, and loose fittings. Then, assuming that everything was in good working order, it was time to rearm their T-2s. That activity included replenishing each cyborg’s magazines, cleaning the Trooper II’s .50-caliber machine gun, and running diagnostics on any other hardware their particular unit was packing, including energy cannons, flamethrowers, and missile launchers if such were authorized. All of this sucked up at least an hour and a half each evening, and was carried out with very little light, and half-frozen fingers.

  Meanwhile, the med techs were expected to keep an eye on all of the cybernetic life-support systems, tweak them if necessary, and give medical care to their fellow bio bods on top of that! This was why the techs were rarely if ever assigned to guard duty.

  Nor were the NCOs and officers exempt from such duties. So Santana was kneeling in the snow, fitting a new coupler to Deker’s left foot pod, when Private Volin emerged from the surrounding gloom. “The colonel wants to speak with you, sir. He’s on channel two.”

  “Roger that,” Santana said, as he came to his feet and stuck both hands under his armpits. He had gloves, but it was difficult to perform fine motor tasks while wearing them. Santana knew that the persistent needles-and-pins sensation in his fingers was a warning of impending frostbite.

  “I’ll finish up,” Volin offered, and went to one knee in order to work on the coupler. Captain Antonio Santana might be tough, but he was fair, and everyone in the company felt the same way. “If we take care of him—he’ll take care of us.”

  “Thank God,” Deker rumbled. “Some competent help for a change!”

  Santana gave the T-2 a one-fingered salute, and left both legionnaires laughing, as he crossed the narrow compound to the point where Xiong had settled in over his legs. The quad was off-line at the moment, grabbing some sleep, but that didn’t prevent the bio bods from using the cyborg’s cargo bay.

  Santana slapped a pressure plate, which caused a side hatch to cycle open, and produced the usual chorus of groans as a blast of cold air invaded the otherwise-warm interior. The forward section of the cargo bay was taken up by cargo modules, but there were various nooks and crannies, all of which had been colonized by off-duty bio bods. Lines had been rigged so that hand-washed socks and underwear could dry, and the air was thick with the pungent odors of sweat, wet clothing, and gun oil. “Sorry, sir,” Staff Sergeant Pool said, as she looked up from peeling pieces of dead skin off her toes. “We didn’t know it was you.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you,” the cavalry officer said mildly, as he stepped over Private Gomyo’s supine body. “Although it would be a good idea to air this place out once in a while. I wish there was some way to capture the smell so we could use it on the bugs.”

  That generated some laughter as Santana made his way back to the tiny cubicle that was supposed to function as a command desk but was far too cramped to be of much use. He pulled a swing-out seat into position, sat down, and put a pair of large can-style headphones over his head, not so much for enhanced audio quality as for privacy. There was no way to know what subject Quinlan wanted to talk about. Quinlan’s face filled most of the screen, but judging from what Santana could see in the background, the other man was in an office environment somewhere. “There you are,” Quinlan said waspishly. “It’s about time.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Santana said neutrally. “I came as quickly as I could.”

  Quinlan sniffed, as if to say that he had doubts about that, but left them unsaid as he made use of his leather-covered swagger stick to scratch his left temple. “General Kobbi put in a request for your services,” Quinlan said disapprovingly. “I can’t say that I appreciate losing an entire company to a wild-goose chase, but there isn’t much I can do about it, so be ready at 0800 tomorrow morning. That’s when the weather wizards predict that we’ll see a break in the cloud cover. A fly-form will pick you up. Tell Amoyo to proceed to Waypoint 27 and wait for you there. And don’t be late.”

  Santana was about to say, “Yes, sir,” when the transmission came to an abrupt end, and electronic snow filled the screen. So Santana removed the headset, made his way over to the door, and pulled his gloves back on. Then, having warned those in the immediate area, he slipped out through the hatch as quickly as he could. Quinlan clearly had reservations about whatever mission Kobbi had up his sleeve, and Santana did, too. Even though Amoyo was a good officer, the legionnaire didn’t like being separated from his company for more than a few hours at a time. But there wasn’t anything Santana could do about the situation except load his XO down with well-intended advice and reinspect the perimeter before grabbing some shut-eye.

  Some company commanders made it a habit to sleep in one of their quads, seeing that as a privilege of rank, but Santana preferred to spend every other night out in the open the way his troops had to. That was one of many reasons why the legionnaires respected him and looked out for him. As evidenced by the fact that anonymous individuals had already prepared a place for their captain between a crackling fire, and a sheet of scorched metal that was angled to reflect some of the heat back at him.

  Having spotted his gear, Santana made a face. “What? No turn-down service?” This served to let his benefactors know that the company commander appreciated what had been done and generated a chorus of chuckles as well. The legionnaires who were gathered around that particular fire were already in their bags as Santana entered his. Each legionnaire had his or her own theory about the best way to set up a Legion issue “sleep system.” The innermost layer of Santana’s “sack” consisted of a slick liner, commonly referred to as a “trash bag,” that allowed a soldier to slide into the bag with his or her boots on. And, if necessary, could serve as a body bag, too.

  The liners also served to keep the inside of the actual bag relatively clean. That was nice after it had been used for a couple of months. But, rather than insert a blanket or some other type of liner into his sack to provide extra warmth, the way some people did, Santana had chosen to shove his sack into a Hudathan-sized bivvy bag “borrowed” for that purpose. All of which provided enough warmth so the officer could sleep—which was what he was doing when the Ramanthians attacked.

  Having made his way downslope earlier, and located a pile of boulders that could serve as a forward observation post, Fareye had volunteered to stay while a steady succession of other legionnaires came and went. That was why the Naa and a bio bod named Purdo were huddled behind the rocks, sipping lukewarm caf from a thermos, when the first sounds were heard. The disturbance began with a series of crunching noises as feet broke through crusty snow, soon followed by the occasional clink of unsecured gear, and muted bursts of click-speech.

  That was more than enough to bring Fareye out of hiding. And one look through his night-vision goggles was sufficient to confirm the Naa’s worst fears. Dozens of heat blobs were visible downslope and there was no question about who they belonged to. Fareye ducked, felt for the flare pistol, and pulled the device out. Purdo, who had complete faith in the noncom’s judgment, waited for orders. “Get ready to throw your grenades,” the Naa said. “Then, once those are gone, run like hell. And don’t stop.”

  Purdo had questions, lots of them, but never got to ask any as Fareye pulled the trigger. The flare soared high into the sky, went off with a distinct pop, and began to drift downward. The device flooded the slope with eye-aching bright light and shrill command whistles were heard as Ramanthian noncoms urged their troops forward.

  When Purdo stood, he saw that at least a hundred white-clad alien soldiers were fighting their way upslope.
Fortunately, the jungle-evolved bugs weren’t designed for traveling uphill through deep snow. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Fareye demanded, as he brought his assault rifle to bear. “Throw your grenades!”

  So Purdo threw his grenades in quick succession, and was proud of the fact that he had remembered to pull the pins, as a series of four loud explosions was heard. Enemy bodies were ripped apart as gouts of snow, blood, and broken chitin were hurled high into the air. The rest of the Ramanthians were forced to march through a grisly rain as the remains of their comrades fell around them.

  More alien soldiers went down as Fareye began to fire three-round bursts from his CA-10. Then, having emptied a magazine, the noncom turned to Purdo. “Okay! Now’s the time! Run like hell!”

  The explosions woke Santana from a deep sleep. All three of the sleeping bags were equipped with rip-open closures. They came apart one after another as bursts of automatic fire were heard. Within seconds, both the officer and his legionnaires were out of their sleep sacks, on their feet, and ready to fight. “The hill!” someone shouted. “They’re coming up the hill!”

  So Santana made his way over to the edge of the turnout, where Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich and others had taken cover behind the improvised barricade and were firing downhill. “Keep it high!” the noncom roared. “Or you’ll answer to me!”

  Santana saw why. Purdo and Fareye were only halfway up the incline. Ramanthian bullets kicked up spurts of snow all around the legionnaires, as they fought for purchase on the slippery slope, and lost their footing time after time. Darkness fell as the pistol flare burned out, but two even brighter lights appeared, as the quads sent 110,000-candlepower illumination rounds arcing over the valley below. The flares glowed like miniature suns and swayed under small parachutes as they spiraled toward the ground.

  “Run, goddamn it, run!” Staff Sergeant Briggs shouted from above, as Purdo managed to arrest the latest slide and start upwards again. But the bio bod hadn’t gone more than five feet before a slug hit him between the shoulder blades. The legionnaire’s body armor was sufficient to stop the projectile, but the force of the impact threw him forward. And that was when a burst of sustained machine-gun fire ate Purdo from below.

  Santana swore as the heavy-caliber bullets followed the cavalryman’s legs up his waist and literally cut the bio bod in two. The good news was that Fareye had made it to the top of the slope by then, where Dietrich reached out to grab the Naa, and pulled him over the top of the barricade as bullets rattled on metal.

  Amazingly, given the amount of fire they faced, approximately fifty Ramanthians were still on their feet and battling their way upwards. No longer constrained by the need to worry about their fellow legionnaires, the company opened fire with a vengeance. And with half a dozen T-2s standing almost shoulder to shoulder the sheer volume of outgoing fire was something to see. A lethal mixture of red tracer and bright blue energy bolts stuttered downslope, cut the advancing soldiers down, and washed the slope with their blood.

  That was sufficient to produce a certain amount of satisfaction where the legionnaires were concerned. But Santana felt differently. Not only had one of his troopers been lost but the seemingly mindless ferocity of the attack worried him. What did it bode for the future? His people were good, very good, but would they march uphill into certain death? Would he? Maybe, but maybe not, which meant the chits would always have an advantage. At least some of the bugs wanted to die. And he, like those around him, wanted to live.

  The regimental weather wizards were correct. The snow tapered off around 0400, the skies began to clear, and by 0730 the sun was out. But with no clouds to hold some heat down, the air grew even colder as the legionnaires struggled to boil water and ready themselves for the coming march.

  Santana battled the desire to reiterate all of the orders already given to Amoyo, took one last tour of the company, and was ready to depart when the fly-form appeared. Like both the T-2s and the quads, the streamlined aircraft was piloted by a living brain in a metal box. The cyborg was connected to both its flyable body and the outside world by a complicated system of computer-assisted electronics. Fly-forms came in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. This one, which was clearly intended for the sort of mission to which it had been assigned, was equipped with helicopter-style rotors and a two-person in-line cockpit. “Watch your six, sir,” Amoyo said, as the aircraft landed on the road. “And have a hot shower for me!”

  Santana waved as he ran for the fly-form, put his right boot into a recess intended for that purpose, and pushed himself up so that his shoulders were level with the cockpit. The backseat was empty, so Santana threw his AWOL bag in there, before taking a second step that allowed him to enter the front passenger seat. A few seconds later he was strapping himself in as the canopy slid closed and a female voice came over the intercom. “Welcome aboard, sir,” the cyborg said respectfully. “My name is Lieutenant Pauley. The estimated flight time to Division HQ is one hour and twenty minutes. The surrounding peaks are too high for me to fly over—so we’re going to follow Route 1 out of the mountains. The bugs took a few potshots at me on the way in—so they’ll probably do the same thing on the way out. But don’t worry because I’m feeling lucky today! Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your flight more comfortable.” And with that the fly-form took off.

  Santana spent the first five minutes of the flight looking for signs of ground fire and marveling over how beautiful the surrounding mountains were, but having logged only a few hours of sleep the night before, and having been freed from any sense of responsibility for what took place around him, it wasn’t long before Santana’s eyelids grew heavy and the drone of the engine lulled him to sleep. When the skids touched ground, the resulting jolt came as a surprise and served to wake the officer up. “Welcome to Division HQ,” Pauley said over the intercom. “And watch that first step. It’s a lulu.”

  The canopy slid back, and the rotors went whop, whop, whop as they began to slow. By the time Santana retrieved his AWOL bag, and lowered himself to the ground, a couple of techs had arrived. “It looks like you took three rounds,” one of the legionnaires observed cheerfully, as he stuck his forefinger into one of the .50-caliber-sized holes located just aft of the passenger compartment. “I’ll bet that got your attention!”

  Santana smiled politely, and thought about how long his nap might have been, as a six-wheeled utility vehicle (UV) pulled up next to the chopper. A rather plain clone was at the wheel and barely acknowledged his passenger as Santana tossed his bag into the back and climbed in next to her. The UV jerked into motion, whirred loudly, and pursued a serpentine course out across a vast expanse of duracrete.

  Assault boats, shuttles, and fly-forms were lined up all around them. But way off in the distance, half-obscured by the yellow-gray ground-hugging smog, a row of spaceships could be seen. There was a muted roar as a navy transport rose on its repellers, swiveled into the wind, and began to gather speed. It was gone moments later, as the ship began to climb, and was soon lost in the blue-gray haze.

  Judging from what he could see, Santana got the feeling that the Ramanthian navy wasn’t considered to be much of a threat. Because while there were plenty of antiaircraft batteries, lots of aircraft were parked close together and would normally constitute a class-A target.

  The UV left the vast expanse of heat-fused tarmac a few minutes later and entered a complex maze of tents, inflatable shelters, and makeshift shacks built out of anything that was handy. Unlike the orderly manner in which the Legion’s base on Adobe was laid out, it appeared as though Division HQ’s twisting-turning streets had been allowed to evolve naturally, which meant that a lot of time would be wasted as newcomers got lost. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to the way the various military units were grouped either. Rather than put a company of tanks next to a maintenance facility, which would make sense, Santana noticed that some bozo had assigned a battalion of Seebos to camp there instead! Which raised another questi
on. Given that most of the fighting was taking place hundreds of miles to the east—why were so many resources sitting around Division HQ?

  There was no way to know, as the UV was forced to stop for a security check, before being allowed to approach what had once been the spaceport’s terminal building. It was one of the few structures General Akoto had spared so his forces could use it. But having driven the bugs out, the clones had taken over, and it soon became clear that a bunch of REMFs (rear-echelon motherfuckers) were in charge. Was that General-453’s fault? Or was the Confederacy to blame? There was no way to know.

  As Santana exited the UV with AWOL bag in hand, a brace of smartly uniformed Seebos crashed to attention. Once inside the building, Santana was required to check in at the duty desk, where a spit-and-polish NCO located the visitor’s name on his screen, and summoned a young Seebo who might have been better employed at the front. Having received his orders, the soldier preceded Santana up a stair-well. The Ramanthians had nailed sheets of plywood over the stairs to make ramps, but most of it had been torn off by then, allowing both men to proceed unimpeded.

  The door to conference room 302 was open, and when Santana looked in, he saw that Colonel Quinlan, General Kobbi, and a Jonathan Alan Seebo were waiting for him. General Kobbi was the first to come over and shake hands. “You look like hell,” Kobbi said cheerfully. “And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Santana replied. “Fortunately, I feel better than I look.”