“And smell,” Quinlan said disapprovingly, as he came over to shake hands. “I believe you know Major Seebo-1,324?”
As it happened the legionnaire did know three-twenty-four. Both men had been stationed on LaNor during the Claw Rebellion, although Santana had been a lieutenant, and the clone a captain. “Of course!” Santana said enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“And you,” the major replied sincerely. “Although I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”
“I think we can promise you a hot shower and a drink at the O club later on,” Kobbi said, “but lunch is on the way. In the meantime I want you to meet someone else.”
So saying, Kobbi pointed a remote at a big wall screen, and touched a button. Video swirled, then locked up. The picture that appeared was that of a Jonathan Alan Seebo. Who, based on the name printed at the bottom of the frame, had been given the number: 62,666. “He’s a handsome devil,” Three-twenty-four put in. “You have to give him that!”
Kobbi laughed along with the others, but the general’s eyes were serious as he turned toward Santana. “Good looks aside, the man you’re looking at led a company of Seebos up to an allied firebase, where he and his men not only murdered twenty-three marines, but took hostages, and stole two tons’ worth of supplies. Prior to that, eyewitnesses claim that Colonel Six, as his subordinates refer to him, knowingly slaughtered civilians during guerilla-style attacks on enemy forces.”
“And that’s why you’re here,” Three-twenty-four added soberly. “Based on your combat record General Kobbi and I believe you’re the right man to track Six down and bring him in.”
“Or kill him,” Quinlan said offhandedly. “Which, all things considered, might be the better course of action. It looks like the food arrived. Let’s have lunch.”
10
Be careful what you wish for—you might just get it.
—A human saying of uncertain origins
Standard year circa 2000
PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The humans called it Death Valley. Which the Ramanthians found amusing since they thought the long, low, mostly barren depression was rather pleasant—not to mention the fact that it was safe from ground attack. Because there was nowhere for humans to hide. Which was why the invaders had chosen to establish a temporary base in the area called Stovepipe Wells, a mostly flat area that was home to the Third Infantry Division. The division consisted of more than ten thousand combat troops, two thousand support personnel, and more than one thousand aircraft. It was one of twenty such bases that the Royal Expeditionary Force had been able to establish on the planet. All of which made the Queen feel good as her shuttle swept in over a makeshift parade ground and hundreds of perfectly aligned habs to land a few hundred feet north of the inflatable headquarters structure erected the day before.
The landings generated a miniature sandstorm that was still swirling when a hatch whirred open, and the Queen shuffled down a ramp and onto the surface of the planet where the human race had evolved. It was pleasantly warm, which was to say 110 degrees in the shade, and the Queen’s ceremonial body armor glittered as she paused to look around. Members of the prestigious Imperial Guard lined both sides of the carpeted walkway that led to the headquarters structure. Behind them, still other soldiers supported T-shaped poles from which rectangular flags hung. One for each of the swarms that had been combined to form a single society hundreds of years earlier.
It was a historic moment, which having been captured by the usual bevy of flying cameras, would be beamed to planets throughout the empire so bedazzled citizens could see their warrior queen symbolically taking possession of Earth. The air was thick with the smell of wing wax, chitin polish, and mood-altering pheromones as the Queen nodded to a group of officials, who had been waiting for the better part of an hour, and preceded them into the headquarters structure.
All of which was quite impressive but not enough to quell the misgivings that Chancellor Ubatha felt. Especially when he was well outside the influence of the psychoactive chemicals that perpetually surrounded the royal and impelled even her most ardent critics to do her bidding. Because even though the human fleet had been destroyed, and the planet’s orbital defenses had been breached, the battle for Earth was far from over. The civilian population had proven to be a good deal more combative than anticipated, and that made it difficult to settle in.
In fact, rather than simply allow themselves to be slaughtered, as many high-ranking officials originally believed they would, the animals continued to fight back! And rather effectively, too. . . . Which was one of the reasons why the invaders were camped in such a remote location. Because every time they attempted to occupy a city, the soldiers came under fire from the surviving elements of various military organizations, newly formed guerrilla groups, and heavily armed criminals. All of which meant that the Queen’s plan to occupy Earth without destroying it was still in question.
It wasn’t too late, however. Victory of a sort was still within reach if only the Queen and her advisors would listen to Ubatha’s ideas. So as the royal disappeared from sight, and her staff passed between the rows of Imperial Guards, the Chancellor knew a different but no less important sort of battle was about to begin.
The Queen was waiting by the time her staff entered the room prepared for her use. It was square. There was a platform to one side where the monarch was seated on a saddle chair and backed by two bodyguards, a security precaution she objected to but her generals insisted on so long as portions of the planet’s surface remained unsecured.
The area directly in front of the royal remained open to accommodate holo projections should any be required. A semicircular table, at which seven of her advisors were invited to sit, had been set up facing her. And, since Chancellor Ubatha was senior to all the rest, he was at the center.
The Queen made a brief opening statement thanking those present for a job well done, and lauding, “. . . the brave warriors upon whom all of us rely.” Most of the troops would see the statement within the next day or so.
What followed was a long, and to Ubatha’s thinking, overly detailed series of reports about every theater of the war except Earth. Based on reports put forth by various military officers, it seemed that rather than lose the battle for Gamma-014, as everyone expected him to, General Akoto might actually win it. Especially if the navy could intervene at exactly the right moment. All thanks to the massive incompetence of General-453, who in the words of one admiral, was “the best officer the Ramanthian Empire had!” Even the Queen found that concept amusing and signaled her merriment with a flurry of clicks.
There had been some reverses of course. . . . Because even though the Confederacy’s forces were stretched thin, they remained potent, as evidenced by a chance encounter off Imiro VI. Having run into a task force consisting of a Ramanthian cruiser, two destroyers, and three heavily loaded transports, a human destroyer and two destroyer escorts not only engaged the larger force, but won the ensuing battle! A sad day indeed. But such narratives were few and far between as Ubatha’s peers continued to brag about a long list of unalloyed victories.
Finally, once the glowing reports were over, it was time to discuss Earth. This prompted a long series of reluctantly negative reports. Because even though the empire had a large number of troops on the ground, only 10 percent of the planet’s surface could be classified as pacified, and the Queen wanted answers. Half a dozen possible solutions were put forward. All of them called for more ships, more troops, and more supplies. Eventually, having heard from the military, the Queen called upon Ubatha. “You’ve been uncharacteristically silent, Chancellor. Yet you’re rarely short of opinions! What would you have me do?”
It was the moment Ubatha had been counting on. “You will recall my original advice, Majesty,” the official intoned carefully. “I felt it would be best to glass Earth and thereby deny the humans their ancestral home.”
At that point some of the individuals seated to
either side of the Chancellor began to squirm uneasily. If Ubatha was preparing to chastise the Queen for failing to follow his advice—then they wanted no part of what would almost certainly be a career-ending moment of self-justification!
But Ubatha had risen to high rank for a reason, and while he sincerely believed that a mistake had been made, the bureaucrat wasn’t so foolish as to say that publicly. “But I was mistaken,” the official admitted humbly. “Because as you pointed out at the time of our discussion, the destruction of Earth could precipitate an attack on Hive, and Earth constitutes a valuable bargaining chip as well.”
By that time the officers and officials seated to either side of Ubatha were wondering where the Chancellor’s comments were headed. But if the Queen was concerned, there was no sign of it in the position of her antennae or the set of her wings. “But there’s a danger,” Ubatha continued. “If we continue to throw more and more resources at Earth in what may be a futile attempt to pacify the planet, Earth could become our Gamma-014. That is to say, an expensive diversion that saps our strength even as the enemy continues to grow stronger.”
That was too much for General Ra Ool—who felt honor-bound to protest. “Excuse me, Chancellor,” the old warrior said. “But that’s absurd! You heard the reports. With few exceptions, our forces are winning every battle they fight!”
“Yes,” Ubatha agreed soberly, “that’s true. But what lies ahead? Even if we win the battle for Gamma-014, who’s to say whether such a mutual defeat will weaken the relationship between the Confederacy and Hegemony, or strengthen it?”
“This is ridiculous,” Ra Ool objected contemptuously. “I really must object—”
“And you have,” the Queen put in sternly. “But, if Chancellor Ubatha plans to make a fool of himself, why not give him every opportunity to do so?”
In spite of the royal’s words, Ubatha knew he had almost total control of the room. “But let’s say I’m wrong about Gamma-014,” the bureaucrat continued, with a nod toward the disgruntled General Ra Ool. “Here’s something I know for sure . . . Thraki intelligence agents tell us that an effort is presently under way to recruit and train Confederacy militia units out along the rim. Specifically, three brigades of mostly human troops. And all of them are likely to be twice as tough as the animals encountered here.
“And if that doesn’t concern you,” Ubatha continued urgently, “then consider this. . . . Having joined the Confederacy, the Hudathans are no longer prohibited from raising an army. And, based on reports from our agents, that’s exactly what the barbarians are doing!”
The words produced a veritable click-storm of concern, because a number of Ramanthian planets had been badly mauled during the Hudathan wars, making it necessary for the race to briefly ally itself with the Confederacy in order to survive. Because the Hudathans had been cut off from all trade for many years, it was widely assumed that years would pass before the aliens would represent a threat again. A period during which the empire could defeat the Confederacy without being forced to deal with the Hudathans at the same time.
It was important information, intentionally withheld to produce maximum effect, and the Queen couldn’t help but admire the skill with which the strategy had been executed—even if Ubatha was guilty of hoarding intelligence that should have been shared the moment it became available. She would chide him for the omission later. But privately—because it was in her interest to keep him strong. “That’s interesting,” the royal allowed calmly. “So tell us, Chancellor, how many Hudathans should we expect to face?”
“There are roughly two billion of them,” Ubatha replied soberly. “And every male under the age of sixty qualifies as a potential warrior. Which means that within a year we will face another 750 million soldiers. And not just any soldiers, but Hudathan soldiers, of the sort who have laid waste to our planets before.”
“So what would you suggest? the Queen demanded. She was beginning to tire of the way in which Ubatha had manipulated the meeting, and he could literally smell her dissatisfaction in the air. “We should try to hold what we have,” Ubatha answered succinctly. “For the reasons already given. But under no circumstances should we expend additional resources on Earth—knowing what will face us soon.”
There was a long period of silence, followed by a sequence of approving clicks from the Queen, and a discharge of pleasurable pheromones. A decision had been made.
Like thousands of other small towns in North America, Mill Valley, just north of San Francisco, had come under attack by the Ramanthians. But without any military bases to threaten the aliens, or heavy industries to attract their attention, the community had escaped relatively unscathed until a wave of urban refugees poured across the latest in a succession of four Golden Gate Bridges, and laid waste to everything in their path. And that included Mill Valley’s shopping mall.
What had been a beautiful state-of-the-art five-story building complete with huge skylights, plant-filled atria, and hundreds of retail sales outlets had been destroyed. Each and every shop had been broken into and looted, tons of shattered glass covered the floors, and bits of worthless merchandise lay everywhere. There were even uglier things, too, including dead bodies, or what was left of them. Because thousands of previously privileged pets had been abandoned in the mad rush to escape the Bay Area and were quickly turning feral, with a tendency to spread bones far and wide.
In spite of all the damage that had been done to the mall, and all the theft that had taken place since, one monument to capitalism remained untouched. And that was the low, squatty structure called the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building. Though part of the mall complex, it stood like an island in the middle of a vast wreck-strewn parking lot. The depository wasn’t a bank in the regular sense of the word, because there hadn’t been much need for brick-and-mortar financial institutions for a long time, but it was a descendant of such buildings. Because the one thing rich people couldn’t do via their personal computers was to store their gold bullion, expensive jewelry, and other valuables anywhere other than within their vulnerable homes. So chains of fortresslike buildings existed to meet that need, most of which contained at least a thousand safety-deposit boxes, which could normally be accessed twenty-four hours a day by anyone having the correct code, retinal pattern, and voiceprint.
When the Ramanthians attacked, and looters swept through the community, the computer in charge of the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building had gone to the deep defensive mode. This resulted in a shutdown so complete that not even bona fide customers could get in. And that explained why either a looter or a frustrated customer had attempted to drive a beer truck through the front door. That attack, like dozens of others, had been unsuccessful. Even the Ramanthians had taken a crack at the depository without any success.
None of that troubled Lieutenant JG Leo Foley, because he and his brig rats were armed with something no other looters had access to. And that was the Mark IV Cutting Torch, which the group had “liberated” from the wreckage of a Confederacy shuttle shortly after being dumped onto the planet’s surface. A truly awesome tool that they, as navy personnel, were very familiar with. Which was how they knew the torch could cut a hole through the depository’s front door and give them access to the riches within!
Getting inside was only half the battle. Because human society had been reduced to predators and prey, and even though they were armed, plenty of other people were carrying weapons as well. The last thing they wanted to do was attract attention and be forced to fight for what they already regarded as theirs. And that was why the would-be thieves were hiding inside a stolen delivery van, waiting for darkness to fall, when one of the sentries called in. He was crouched on top of the depository’s flat roof and his voice had a nasal quality. “Uh-oh. A Ramanthian transport is coming in from the south. . . . It’s traveling low and slow. You’ll see it in a minute or so.”
Foley swore. There was no telling what the bugs were up to, but one thing was for sure: It would be stupid to le
ave the protection of the van and tackle the depository just as the chits arrived. “Get down off that roof,” Foley ordered. “And take cover. Chances are they’ll keep on going so long as we don’t give them a reason to stop.”
But the bugs had other plans, which quickly became obvious. “There it is!” Tappas exclaimed, as the sailor peered up through the van’s windshield. “I think the bastards are going to land!” The comment proved prophetic as a loud thrumming noise was heard and a black shadow slid across the parking lot. Jets of bright blue energy stabbed the ground, and metal creaked as the transport settled onto huge skids. Foley was worried by that time. He and his companions couldn’t drive away, not without drawing attention to themselves, but it would be crazy to stay. “The main hatch is opening,” Tappas observed gloomily. “That can’t be good.”
Foley agreed, as two files of Ramanthian troops shuffled their way down a ramp and onto the debris-strewn asphalt. Rather than heading straight for the van, as Foley feared they would, the aliens came to an abrupt halt. Then, just as Foley was starting to feel hopeful, an officer brandished his sword and ordered the soldiers to form two ranks. The first of which dropped to one knee. “What the hell are they doing?” Tappas inquired, as he continued to peer out through the windshield.
Foley was just about to say, “I don’t know,” when a flood of humans poured out of the ship. Some glanced back over their shoulders as if fleeing someone. The crowd included men, women, and children. That was when the navy officer felt something cold trickle into the pit of his stomach. Because judging from the way the troops were positioned, they were about to open fire!
“Check your weapons,” Foley said grimly, “and start the engine. Kill the officer with the van. We’ll shoot the rest.”
“But what about the depository?” one of the men inquired plaintively. “Aren’t we going rob it?”
“Not today,” Foley said, as he turned to Tappas. “Hit it!”
When Duty Calls Page 18
