When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

Ji-Jua wanted to resist what he believed to be an extremely poor decision, but the force of the monarch’s personality combined with a sudden flood of pheromones, was more than the officer could overcome. “I’m sorry, Majesty,” he said contritely. “It shall be as you say.”

  Thirty minutes later the Queen was aboard an assault boat headed for the surface. The plan was to secure a landing zone, hold it long enough to load the beleaguered soldiers, and take off as soon as possible. Which, given total command of the air, should be relatively easy to do.

  Thanks to the monarch’s reassuring presence, plus their natural feelings of superiority, morale was high as the boat put down three hundred feet west of the wreck. The stern ramp made a loud thud as it hit the ground. A trio of flying vid cams went off first, followed by the Queen and four members of the Imperial Guard. As the Ramanthians shuffled out into a cold rain, the lake was only twenty-five feet to their left, which should have been a good thing. Except that sixteen SCUBA-equipped freedom fighters chose that moment to surface and open fire! Half of the humans had never fired a weapon in anger, and their bullets kicked up spurts of dirt and rainwater, as they held their triggers down.

  The original plan had been to attack the downed transport from the water side, but with a group of Ramanthian soldiers directly in front of them, the humans had no choice but to attack or be attacked. The Queen was wearing body armor, but one of the first bullets the animals fired found the seam between the stiff collar that protected her neck, and the material that cloaked the rest of her elongated body. The projectile punched a hole through the royal’s chitin and nicked her posterior nerve bundle before exiting through the other side of her body, where it slammed into her armor.

  The whole thing came as a complete surprise to the Queen, who being all-powerful in every other respect, believed herself to be invulnerable on the battlefield as well. There was no pain, just a sense of disbelief, as she collapsed and lay helpless in a large puddle of muddy water.

  There was a great deal of shouting, pincer clacking, and confusion as the royal’s bodyguards grabbed what they feared was a dead body, and attempted to carry the limp burden toward the assault boat. But they were under fire the entire time, and two of them fell, thereby dumping the already-wounded monarch onto hard ground. So two of the rank-and-file soldiers stepped in to help, got hold of the inert body, and helped drag it up the ramp.

  Once the royal was on board, the pilot lifted, thereby leaving the rest of the file to be slaughtered, as those on the Reaper subjected the aviator to a nonstop flow of frantic orders. Ten minutes later the assault boat and its special cargo were safe inside the warship’s launch bay, where a team of medical personnel was waiting. They rushed on board and, having made an initial assessment, delivered the good news: “The Queen lives!”

  That was true, but it quickly became apparent that while conscious, the royal was paralyzed from the neck down. The effort to rescue those trapped on the surface continued as a despondent Captain Ji-Jua took the actions necessary to transfer the royal to the battleship Regulus, where a team of medical specialists would be waiting to receive her.

  Chancellor Ubatha was present as the Queen was brought aboard the battleship some three hours after the injury. He shuffled alongside the high-tech gurney as the monarch was wheeled into a waiting operating room. A consensus had emerged by then. All of the doctors agreed that initial efforts should focus on stabilizing the monarch, so they could evacuate her to Hive, where the empire’s foremost surgeons would be brought in to evaluate her condition.

  For that reason, the initial operation was mostly exploratory in nature and didn’t last long. It took the Queen half an hour to recover from the effects of the general anesthetic, but once she did, Ubatha was summoned to her side. Although the royal lacked the ability to move her body, she could talk, albeit with some difficulty.

  Ubatha felt a genuine sense of affection for the warrior queen, and that, plus the chemical cocktail that permeated the air around her, caused a genuine upwelling of sympathetic emotions as the official looked down on her. “I’m sorry,” the Queen croaked. “But it looks like I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But even that can serve our purposes. . . . Make sure video of what took place is seen throughout the empire. Along with assurances that I’m still alive. I think I can assure you that the Ramanthian people will fight even harder after what happened to their Queen!”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha said gently. “The people love you. . . . And your sacrifice will show them the way.”

  “And that brings us to you,” the monarch put in.

  “Me, Majesty? How so?”

  “Until such time as I regain the full use of my body, you will serve as my surrogate. That will be difficult for both of us—but we have no other choice.”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha said obediently.

  “We can discuss all of the procedural difficulties during the trip to Hive,” the Queen added. “But, first I want you to find Captain Ji-Jua, and check on his mental state. He attempted to dissuade me from participating in the rescue, but I overrode him, and I’m afraid he will blame himself.”

  “Yes, Majesty. Right away, Majesty,” Ubatha said, as he backed away. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I knew you would,” the Queen said, as she allowed her eyes to close. “Thank you.”

  Ubatha was as good as his word, and immediately went in search of Ji-Jua, who had been thoroughly chastised by then, and summarily relieved of his command. So the Chancellor located the cabin assigned to the visiting officer, announced his presence via the intercom, and waited for a response. When none was forthcoming he pushed a pincer into the access slot and heard servos whir, as the hatch opened. It was dark inside, but there was no mistaking the body that lay on the deck, or the pistol that lay inches from the dead officer’s outstretched pincer. Having failed in his duty to protect the Queen, Ji-Jua had taken his own life. A terrible waste—but useful nevertheless. Because once the news of the Queen’s injury became public, there would be an overwhelming desire to place blame. Knowingly, or unknowingly, Captain Orto Ji-Jua had volunteered to go down in history as the officer responsible for the monarch’s disabling wound. And for that, Chancellor Ubatha was grateful.

  METROPLEX, SAN FRANCISCO

  The old warehouse stood because no one had gotten around to knocking it down. Shafts of sunlight slanted in from windows high above and threw pools of light onto the much-abused duracrete floor below. And there, seated behind a beat-up metal desk, was a very troubled man. Because one of the many problems associated with heading the Earth Liberation Brigade was the amount of work that the newly created position entailed. It was work that Lieutenant JG Foley found to be especially onerous since much of his life had been dedicated to evading responsibility rather than trying to embrace it. And now, having been transformed from would-be thief to resistance leader, the officer was faced with all the issues natural to any large organization. Which was to say recruiting, stroking, and retaining good people, while simultaneously trying to obtain scarce resources like food, medical supplies, and weapons.

  Such problems weighed heavily on Foley, as the woman in front of him rose to leave, and one of his underlings brought a man forward to replace her. There were at least twenty-five people waiting for an audience, which meant that his so-called office hours were sure to extend well into the evening, at which point brigade headquarters would be moved to another location.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” the man with the blond hair said, as he sat down opposite Foley. He had a medium build, a woodenly handsome face, and appeared to be about twenty-five years old. Unlike Foley, whose face was covered with a two-day growth of beard, the visitor was clean-shaven. His clothing was nondescript but sturdy—perfect for urban warfare. “You’re welcome,” the resistance leader said automatically. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s more like what I can do for you,” the blond man answered with a sardonic grin.

  “I really d
on’t have time for word games,” the officer said dourly, as he examined the list in front of him. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. . . . Would you mind giving me your name?”

  “Chien-Chu,” the blond man said. “Sergi Chien-Chu. But given that you’re a lieutenant, and I’m an admiral, feel free to call me sir. I don’t pull rank very often—but there are times when it makes sense. And this is one of them.”

  Like most humans, Foley was familiar with the name. It was hard not to be, since the real Chien-Chu was not only the billionaire owner of Chien-Chu Enterprises, but the man many called “The Father of the Confederacy,” and was rumored to be well over one hundred years old. Or his brain tissue was anyway, since his original bio body had worn out decades before, and been replaced by a succession of cybernetic vehicles, which were said to come in a variety of shapes and sizes.

  But was Foley looking at one of them? That seemed very doubtful. . . . Because rich people had space yachts, and thousands of them had escaped Earth orbit during the early days of the invasion. So rather than feeling awestruck, as he otherwise might have, Foley was angry. “Right, you’re Sergi Chien-Chu, and I’m President Nankool. . . . You can leave now. . . . Or should I have some of my men throw you out?”

  Sergi Chien-Chu thought of the file he wanted and watched the electronic document appear in front of his “eyes.” “Before you do that, Lieutenant, consider this. . . . Who, but an admiral, or someone similar, would know that your military ID number is CFN 204-632-141? Or, that you have a heart-shaped birthmark on the upper surface of your left arm? Or, that you were in Battle Station III’s brig, accused of grand larceny when the Ramanthians attacked? Which is when you found your way to the surface—and wound up in command of the Earth Liberation Brigade. And you’ve been riding the tiger ever since.”

  Foley realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. Even though it was theoretically possible that someone other than a genuine admiral could assemble the information the stranger had at his disposal, it was unlikely, given the circumstances, and deep down the officer knew that the blond man’s claim was true. Somehow, impossible though it might seem, one of the most remarkable people in the history of the Confederacy was seated there in front of him! “Sorry, sir,” the officer said apologetically. “But this is something of a surprise. . . . A welcome one, however—since you’re far more qualified to run this organization than I am!”

  “Nice try, son,” Chien-Chu said dryly. “But you accepted your commission—and by God you’re going to earn it! In fact, given that it would be unseemly to have such a junior officer in charge of a soon-to-be-powerful army, I’m jumping you up to commander! It’s a temporary rank, of course, but who knows? If you can control your larcenous instincts, and if you show up for work every day, we might make the promotion permanent when this is all over. And drop the charges against you . . . Sound good?”

  Foley looked around, saw that his underlings were staring at him with open curiosity, and knew why. He had already spent more time with Chien-Chu than the people who had preceded him. “Sir, yes sir. Would you be willing to drop the charges pending against my men as well?”

  “Yes,” Chien-Chu answered. “We’ll drop any charge short of murder, assuming that they take your orders, and remain loyal until Earth has been liberated.”

  “Okay,” Foley said. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good,” the entrepreneur replied. “Now here’s the problem. . . . We, which is to say the Confederacy’s military forces, are spread very thin at the moment. The truth is that we won’t be able to send a fleet here for months to come. And that’s if things go well! If they don’t, it could be as much as a year before help arrives. Meanwhile, as is typical in such situations, all sorts of criminals are busy feeding off the chaos.”

  Foley remembered his plan to rob the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building and felt a sense of shame. Chien-Chu saw the expression on the other man’s face and grinned knowingly. “Shocking isn’t it? And, making a bad situation worse, is the fact that some of these criminal organizations are pretending to be freedom fighters as a way to solicit popular support. At least one of which is being led by a retired general. It will be necessary to deal with him eventually, but given the fact that his people would kick your ass right now, that will have to wait. In the meantime we’re going to strengthen your group until the Earth Liberation Brigade is the big boy on the block. . . . And that’s when you’ll be ready to throw your weight around. But only for the benefit of the Confederacy. Do you read me?”

  The truth was that Foley wasn’t sure he could live up to all of the admiral’s expectations. But Chien-Chu knew about his personal history and hadn’t been deterred. So perhaps he was capable of leading the Earth Liberation Brigade and just didn’t know it. “Yes, sir,” Foley said. “I read you.”

  “Good,” the other man said. “Tell me something, son. . . . Are you an angler?”

  Foley thought it was strange to have someone who appeared to be the same age he was call him “son.” “No, sir,” the officer replied. “I grew up the city, so I never went fishing.”

  “Well, it’s never too late to learn,” the businessman observed. “Go ahead and finish what you were doing. The concept of meeting with citizens on a regular basis is a good thing to do by the way. . . . And it makes you different from the pretenders who would like to set up shop out there. So once you’re finished, we’re going to take a run down to the bay. You know the huge hab that Homby Industries built just off Angel Island? Well, the condos took a beating from the bugs, but there’s nothing wrong with the marina located underneath the complex. And that’s where our fishing boat is hidden.”

  Foley thought that the whole notion of a fishing trip was strange, very strange, but nodded anyway. “Yes, sir. Will I need some sort of pole?”

  Admiral Chien-Chu smiled indulgently. “No, son, you won’t.”

  It was nearly pitch-black off Point Bonita, but there was some light from the moon, as large swells passed under the yacht. The ride out had been relatively smooth, thanks to the winglike hydrofoils that lifted the hundred-foot-long boat out of the water and enabled speeds of up to forty-eight knots. But now that the vessel was hull down, it was subject to the motion of the waves like any other boat, and Foley felt increasingly nauseous. Not Chien-Chu, though, who had just finished explaining how the yacht had been “borrowed” from a wealthy acquaintance of his, who was among those who had fled the planet. The crew consisted of Chien-Chu Enterprises employees, who wore black hoods and were heavily armed. A group which, Foley suspected, would be assigned to keep an eye on him.

  “We’re getting close,” the admiral promised, as another wave broke over the plunging bow. “Earth is two-thirds water you know. . . . That makes for a lot of surface area to keep track of. And even though they have to drink the stuff, the bugs aren’t all that partial to H2O. That’s because they evolved on a planet that doesn’t have any oceans.”

  All of that might have been more interesting to Foley had his stomach felt better. As it was, the naval officer was battling the urge to vomit, which for reasons he wasn’t altogether sure of, he didn’t want to do while Chien-Chu was looking on. “Okay,” the cyborg said, as a stream of data continued to scroll down the right side of his “vision.” “Here it comes!”

  There was a clap of thunder as whatever “it” was broke the sound barrier, followed by a tremendous explosion of water as something big smacked into the surface of the ocean a thousand yards off the port bow. “There’s our fish!” the businessman proclaimed enthusiastically. “Now to reel it in!”

  It took the better part of twenty minutes to bring the yacht alongside the heaving object, hook on to a submerged tow-point, and begin the process of hauling the object ashore. The boxy container would have been very difficult to tow had it not been for extendable hydrofoils that provided the same amount of lift the yacht enjoyed.

  “You can sink it, too!” Chien-Chu said proudly, as he looked astern. “And program it to su
rface whenever you want! That feature will become increasingly important once the bugs realize what’s going on. There’s a whole lot of ocean out there—and even with orbital surveillance they can’t track everything that goes on. Plus, we’re going to throw empties at them, just to keep the bastards busy!”

  Now that the yacht’s foils were deployed, the ride was a good deal steadier, which allowed Foley to focus on something more than his stomach. “That’s amazing, sir. May I ask what’s in the container?”

  “Yes, you may,” Chien-Chu replied cheerfully. “This one contains automatic weapons plus lots of ammo. . . . Just the sort of thing that an up-and-coming resistance leader like yourself would ask for if he could! Future loads will include heavy weapons, medical supplies, and food.”

  Foley felt a steadily rising sense of hope. “That’s terrific, sir. . . . Can I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course,” the cyborg said indulgently, as the boat passed under the partially slagged Golden Gate Bridge. “Suggest away.”

  “Some or all of those dummy containers could contain bombs,” Foley said. “That would not only inflict casualties—but slow the chits down.”

  “And discourage any criminals that might get a hold of one!” Chien-Chu added gleefully. “I can see that we chose well! I will forward your idea to the proper people. They’ll love it.”

  Foley nodded. “Thank you, sir. But one more question . . . The last time I was up in orbit, the bugs were in control. Won’t they intercept and destroy our ships before they can drop more containers into the atmosphere? Frankly, I’m surprised this one got through.”

  “No, they won’t be intercepted,” the admiral answered confidently. “Because there aren’t any ships! Not in the conventional sense anyway. . . . We’re using specially designed drones, each of which has its own hyperdrive and onboard NAVCOMP. Rather than exit hyperspace six planetary diameters out, the way all incoming traffic is normally required to do, the drones are programmed to drop hyper inside the moon’s orbit! That means the chits have very little time in which to respond before the vehicle enters the atmosphere, opens up, and dumps up to four individually targetable cargo modules into any body of water we choose.