When Duty Calls

by William C. Dietz

  Having consumed a hearty meal in the company of his cronies, the clone went up to his office, where it was his intention to respond to General Kobbi’s latest memo. A missive the Seebo wanted to ignore, but couldn’t, because of the way the free breeder consistently copied General Bill Booly. Still, the legionnaires were dying at a prodigious rate, and there was an excellent chance that Kobbi would take a bullet during one of his frequent trips to the front lines. I’ll give the asshole a posthumous medal, the officer thought to himself, and send my condolences to General Booly!

  The thought brought a thin smile to General-453’s face as he entered his office only to discover that another Seebo was waiting for him. Even though the clone soldiers looked identical except for differences in age, they could frequently tell each other apart thanks to nuances of dress, posture, and inflection. Not this time however, because even though they were roughly the same age, Four-fifty-three couldn’t remember meeting this officer before. “Is there some sort of emergency, Colonel?” the general wanted to know. “Because if there isn’t, I would prefer that you see my adjutant, and make an appointment to see me.”

  Colonel Six stood. Thanks to his obvious status as a Seebo, and his relatively high rank, it had been absurdly easy to find out where the general was and await his return. The renegade put the time to good use by studying the schematics on the walls, reviewing a thick stack of intelligence reports, and skimming through the correspondence stacked on one corner of the collapsible desk. “I’m afraid it is an emergency, sir,” Six assured the senior officer. “But we’ll have everything under control in a moment. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant-44?”

  General-453 opened his mouth to say something, but never got a chance, as Lieutenant-44 took him from behind. The senior officer struggled, but couldn’t counter the combination of a full nelson, and the younger man’s strength. “Okay,” Colonel Six said. “You can come out now.”

  That was Dr. Kira Kelly’s cue to step out of General- 453’s washroom. “How dare you!” General-453 spluttered, and the medic crossed the room. “I’ll have you arrested! I’ll have you court-martialed! I’ll have—”

  “Make him shut up,” Colonel Six said disgustedly, as Kelly knelt next to Four-fifty-three.

  “This should do it,” the doctor said calmly, pressing the injector against one of the general’s meaty thighs. There was an audible pop as a gas cartridge forced a powerful sedative through the weave of Four-fifty-three’s trousers and into his bloodstream. Lieutenant-44 was there to support the older Seebo as the strength left his legs.

  “Let’s put the general to bed,” Six said, moving in to help. With Four-Four supporting Four-fifty-three’s torso, and the others lifting his legs, the Seebo was carried into his sleeping compartment and strapped to his cot. With that accomplished, Six turned to Kelly. “Thank you, Doctor. You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “No,” Kelly answered. “What does it mean? Outside of the fact that I must be crazy?”

  “It means you’re one of us,” Six said meaningfully. “Because now you’re part of what amounts to a mutiny.”

  Kelly remembered the view from the top of the tank, as thousands of brave men and women were sent forward into what constituted a meat grinder, and knew Six was correct. By giving the sedative, she had knowingly crossed the line from victim, to criminal, and aligned herself with a man who, if not a murderer on the scale that General-453 was, still qualified as such. Not that it mattered much, because Kelly had already lost her way, and knew it. Her resolve had weakened since leaving the note at the refueling station. Serious mistakes had been made, and there was no going back. “Yes,” Kelly agreed fatalistically. “We’re on the same side.”

  “Good,” Six replied evenly. “The next part is going to be tricky. Very tricky indeed. And I need your help.”

  General Mortimer Kobbi had his combat gear on, and was about to go out into the flare-lit trenches, when the summons arrived. “You’re sure?” the tough little legionnaire demanded, as the com tech faced him under the glare produced by the overhead strip lights. Their breaths fogged the air, a series of distant explosions sent tremors through the frozen ground, and a nearly spent bullet pinged as it flattened itself against one of the metal shutters.

  “Yes, sir,” the corporal said steadfastly. “General-453 wants to see you right away.”

  “It was probably that last memo you sent,” a major named Perko said sardonically. “The firing squad is ready.”

  The com tech thought that was funny—but knew better than to smile. “All of the regimental commanders were invited,” the corporal put in. “The meeting is scheduled for 2100 hours.”

  Kobbi waited until the enlisted man had left before turning to Perko. The major was a big man, with broad shoulders, and a long, lugubrious face. “Who knows?” the general said rhetorically. “Maybe the bastard will listen to someone other than his clone suck-ups for a change.”

  Perko shrugged. “Here’s hoping. I’ll take care of the tour for you.”

  “Keep your head down,” Kobbi cautioned. “You’d look damned silly without it.”

  The makeup job was far from perfect, but by putting on three sets of General-453’s underwear in order to better fill out one of his uniforms, and by inserting a couple of Kelly’s two-inch-by-two-inch gauze pads in his cheeks to make his face look puffier, Colonel Six was able to approximate the other officer’s appearance. Would any of Four-fifty-three’s subordinates notice discrepancies? Probably, especially where subtle mannerisms were concerned, but it wouldn’t make any difference unless they had the courage to challenge the supreme commander. And that was unlikely.

  So that was the man who entered the underground command bunker at 2100 hours. It was a long narrow space that had been scooped out of the ground with a tank-mounted dozer blade, tidied up by hand, and spray-sealed to keep moisture out. Self-adhesive strip lights had been attached to the ceiling, two folding worktables took up the center of the room, and folding chairs were slotted all around. The floor consisted of locally produced wood planks that were painstakingly scrubbed each morning consistent with General-453’s standing orders.

  About half of the officers who came to attention were Seebos, and the rest were free breeders, including Mortimer Kobbi. The clone’s face looked more bloated than usual, but that was of little interest to the legionnaire, who was hoping for some sort of breakthrough. Anything other than another suicidal attack against an entrenched enemy. And, much to Kobbi’s amazement, that was what he got! “At ease,” the imposter said, as he eyed those around him. “Please take your seats. Our present strategy isn’t working—so get ready to take notes. We’re going to try something new.”

  Though not identical to the way the legionnaire would have planned it, the strategy that Four-fifty-three presented was similar, especially where the use of armor was concerned. “As you know,” Six said, “the battlefield is strewn with wrecked hover tanks. That’s because the Ramanthians knew we would use them—and knew they wouldn’t work very well over deep trenches.”

  Kobbi was amazed. As were the other Confederacy officers seated around him. It was like listening to a different man! Or himself for that matter—because everything Four-fifty-three was saying could be found in the memos he’d sent in. “But, thanks to our brave allies, we have an answer!” Six proclaimed. “Because the Legion’s quads can walk, rather than float across the battlefield, engaging multiple targets as they do so, thereby clearing the way for the Trooper IIs and bio bods who will follow.”

  Now it was the Seebos’ turn to look at each other in amazement. Because on all previous occasions, when no free breeders were present to hear, the supreme commander had consistently referred to the Legion’s cyborgs as “freaks, weirdos, and criminal scum.” Military curiosities at best who weren’t fit for serious combat. Which was why none of the cavalry units had seen any action yet—in spite of the fact that the Legion’s infantry had taken part in assault after assault. But such was their fear of the
general, and his notoriously short temper, that none of the clone officers wanted to challenge the apparent about-face. Especially with so many free breeders present.

  So the battle plan was finalized, and all of the regimental commanders were sent out to prepare their troops, which were slated to attack the Ramanthian positions just before dawn. Not with the goal of taking a few trenches, but in an effort to wipe the bugs off the battlefield, and capturing the town beyond! Kobbi was whistling by the time he made his way down the slippery ramp and entered his command bunker. And that, as all of his subordinates knew, was a very good sign.

  Rather than the chance to rest, which Santana and his company had been hoping for, they came down out of Tow-Tok Pass to discover that they would be at the forefront of an all-out attack scheduled for 0500 the next morning. The cavalry officer got the news in person, as people bustled about the 1st REC’s command bunker, clearly preparing for something. “I’m sorry,” General Kobbi said, once Santana had delivered his report. “But we’ve got to put the Colonel Six matter aside for the moment. I know you and your people deserve a break, but I can’t give you one. Finally, after all this time, General- 453 has come to his senses! We’re going to launch a major attack in the morning—I’m going to need every cyborg we’ve got. So rearm your people and get them ready. God willing, we’ll take Yal-Am in time for lunch!”

  Santana had known the diminutive general for quite a while by then and couldn’t recall seeing him quite so enthusiastic before. “That sounds good, sir,” Santana replied. “I’d better get back to my company.”

  “One thing before you go,” Kobbi said thoughtfully. “I was going to assign this task to someone else, but you have more combat experience, and you know what that means.”

  Santana made a face. “Is this some sort of shit detail, sir?”

  “Yes, it is!” Kobbi replied cheerfully. “Much to everyone’s surprise General-453 wants to lead this assault from the front. But given the speed with which we’re going to advance, the only way he can possibly keep up is to ride a T-2. Which he’s never done before.”

  Santana groaned. “So you want me to babysit him.”

  “No,” Kobbi countered. “I want you and your company to guard him. But I won’t insist. Colonel Quinlan misses you terribly—and will be quite happy to bring Alpha Company back into the fold.”

  There was a moment of silence as the men stared at each other. It was Santana who spoke first. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  “You are one rotten bastard. Sir.”

  Kobbi grinned from ear to ear. “That’s what they tell me. So, we have a deal?”

  “Yes, sir,” Santana agreed grimly. “We have a deal.”

  “Good. I’ll send word to the general. Which cyborg will you partner him with?”

  “Private Shalo Shaley, sir. We lost her bio bod up in Tow-Tok Pass.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Kobbi replied soberly. “Well, tell the private she’s about to become a corporal if she can get Four-fifty-three into Yal-Am with his clone ass intact.”

  Santana came to attention. The salute was smart and crisp. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Kobbi returned the salute. “Dismissed.”

  The senior officer’s face was impassive, but as Santana turned, and made his way up the ramp Kobbi sent a thought after him. Take care of yourself, Captain. . . . Your father would be proud.

  The entire front line seemed to hold its collective breath as the final seconds ticked away, and General-453 yelled “Charge!” over the division-level push. Except that it wasn’t Four-fifty-three, because he was still being held under Dr. Kira Kelly’s supervision, as dozens of simultaneously launched flares transformed night into day, artillery shells screamed downrange, and the huge quads lumbered out onto the battlefield.

  The fifty-ton cyborgs were big targets, and therefore almost impossible to miss, but they could take a lot of punishment, and did, as the Ramanthians opened up with everything they had. The legionnaires fought back as missiles raced off their rails, energy cannons sent pulses of blue death stuttering across no-man’s-land, and powerful legs tore through coils of barbed wire. And there were others besides Lupo and Xiong, sixteen quads altogether sweeping across the icy moonscape.

  The big monsters weren’t alone. The smaller, more agile T-2s were all around them. Jumping over trenches, flaming machine-gun nests, and firing shoulder-launched missiles. The rockets sleeted across the cratered landscape to strike at enemy artillery positions. Some were neutralized, while others continued to fire, their barrels nearly parallel to the ground.

  That was when Colonel Six, AKA General-453, realized his mistake. Rather than lead allied forces, the way the renegade had imagined that he would, the clone had been reduced to little more than a piece of living luggage strapped to a T-2’s back! And not very skilled baggage, because if it hadn’t been for the harness that held him in place, Six knew he would have been thrown clear by then. So all the imposter could do was hold on, fire his pistol at targets of opportunity, and hope things were going well.

  And things were going well, or so it seemed to Santana, who was advancing parallel to General-453, roughly fifteen feet away. Even though he understood the theoretical advantage that the big walkers had when fighting on broken terrain, Santana had never been exposed to trench warfare before, and was proud to see how easily the quads could advance across a battlefield littered with burned-out hover tanks. And not just advance, but destroy the enemy with overlapping fields of fire, as the seemingly unstoppable behemoths continued to plod forward.

  Unfortunately, the big cyborgs could be stopped, and even though they hadn’t had any practice, the Ramanthian officers understood the theory. Every weapon system involves a series of trade-offs. One of which is the ratio of weight to speed. And speed was very important. So rather than use the same thickness of armor underneath the quads, as they had everywhere else, the cybernetic engineers put less metal there. That meant the way to kill a quad was to send infantry in under it, find a way to attach a demolition pack to the cyborg’s belly, and run like hell! Or, if that wasn’t possible, then attack a spindly leg. Of course the Legion’s tacticians understood how vulnerable the big machines were, which was why a platoon of T-2s was typically assigned to guard each quad against infantry attacks.

  But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and as Xiong moved forward her “torso” passed over a group of dead Ramanthians. Except one of them wasn’t dead. His name was Koga Noo, he was a member of the fanatical Nira cult, and eager to sacrifice himself to the cause. Especially if he could take one of the big walkers with him!

  War involves luck, both good and bad, and as luck would have it a demo pack lay four feet away. It had been brought onto the battlefield for the purpose of blowing a hole in the allied wire, but the engineers assigned to place it had been killed. So it was a simple matter for Noo to grab hold of the container and leap into the air as the quad passed over him. The cyborg’s thinly armored belly was too high for the soldier to touch, but the Ramanthian had wings and was quick to deploy them. Seconds later, before the deadly T-2s could intervene, Noo was hovering just below Xiong’s closely packed cargo bay. That was when the enemy soldier pinched the switch.

  There was a brilliant flash of light, followed by a resounding boom, as the charge went off and Noo was vaporized. Less than half the force generated by the explosion was directed up and into the cyborg’s belly, but it was sufficient to burn a hole through the relatively thin armor, and send a jet of superheated gases into the compartment above. That triggered a series of secondary explosions, which not only killed the twelve Seebos seated in the cargo bay but ripped Xiong apart.

  Santana swore, and attempted to contact the cyborg via the company push, but there was no answer, as what remained of the legionnaire toppled onto one of Bravo Company’s T-2s, thereby raising the death toll to fifteen.

  However, there was no time to stop and grieve as the rest of the allied
line continued to surge forward. Colonel Six had grown somewhat used to the violent rocking motion by that time, and could be seen at the very front of the allied army, shouting encouragement to every unit he passed. This came as something of a surprise from an officer better known for his cutting criticisms than unreserved praise.

  The allied formation had cleared no-man’s-land by that time, and was well within Ramanthian lines, which had broken before the onslaught. Santana, who was busy guarding General-453’s right flank, saw what was taking place and urged Alpha Company forward. “Run the bastards down!” he shouted. “Remember Xiong!”

  There were shouts of “Camerone!” and “Blood!” as the Hudathan legionnaires uttered their traditional war cry. Then they were through to the Ramanthian rear lines, where the enemy tanks and artillery pieces were trapped in their own revetments, as the alien soldiers continued to pull back into the devastated city of Yal-Am.

  Rather than remain where he was, and die an ignominious death at the hands of the animals, one of the tank commanders sent his beetle-shaped Gantha straight at Deker and Santana. The cavalry officer saw a flash of light as the big 120mm gun went off, followed by a potentially deafening boom, as the big shell roared past him.

  Then the T-2 was in the air! Metal clanged on metal as Deker landed on the Gantha’s lower deck. Santana looked up to see that the helmeted tank commander was trying to bring a heavy machine gun to bear on the threat below him. Santana brought his CA-10 up, pulled the trigger, and felt a sinking sensation when nothing happened! The goddamned piece of crap had frozen up!

  The machine gun continued to swing around as Santana worked the action, brought the weapon up for a second time, and pulled the trigger again. The Ramanthian’s head jerked backwards as two of the slugs smashed through his face shield, pulped his brains, and blew what was left out through the back of his fiber-composite helmet.