Seconds later, slavers armed with clubs were in among their victims, beating anyone who tried to resist and taking their possessions. Margaret’s pack was ripped off her back, her pistol was confiscated, and a man with bad breath ran greedy hands up and down her body. Even going so far as to grab her crotch and squeeze her breasts. But the little vials escaped his notice, and with younger victims to abuse, the man made no attempt to follow up.
What ensued was like a scene from hell as women were thrown to the ground to be raped, children were hauled away, and the more contentious males were shot. But dead bodies weren’t worth anything, except to the crows, so it wasn’t long before a man dressed in camos appeared and shouted orders. That was when Margaret caught her second look at General Otto Tovar. Because the two of them had met once before.
Rather than tolerate the fringe of hair that would otherwise circle half his skull, Tovar had chosen to shave his head instead. That, plus the fact that he had no neck to speak of, made him look like a fireplug. Because even though the slave master had a big frame, he was overly fond of food, and eternally hovered at the edge of obesity. And that was why the carefully starched militia uniform looked so tight on him.
It had been Veteran’s Day, five or six years earlier, when they had met. Charles had been home on leave, but the diplomat could never escape work entirely, and having been invited to a government-sponsored Veteran’s Day party, felt he had to go. Margaret had agreed to accompany him. Tovar had been at the affair as well, resplendent in a fancy uniform, and pontificating on the second Hudathan war. It was a conflict which, according to Charles, the militia general hadn’t fought in other than to help with recruiting.
Quite a bit of time had passed since then, but Margaret remembered being introduced to Tovar, and wondered if the bloated general would remember her as he sat in judgment of his newly acquired merchandise. The slaver’s expedition-quality folding chair had been set up on a small rise where a domestic robot stood ready to meet its master’s needs as classical music played over a portable sound system. The general had a deeply creased forehead, and deep-set eyes, that were nearly hidden by prominent brows. A heavily veined nose, a pair of thick, sensual lips, and at least three chins completed the picture.
All of the captives had been pushed, prodded, and shoved into the line by that time, and it jerked forward in a series of fits and starts, as human beings were sorted into various categories. Men who were strong enough to perform heavy physical labor went into one group. Women judged pretty enough for the brothels went into another. And there were nonstop wailing sounds as children were taken away. Some to be sold and some to be used for even darker purposes.
That was shocking enough, but there were even less fortunate people as well, who were shunted off into a group Tovar didn’t want to feed. Less robust people for the most part, who couldn’t be harnessed to a plow, and would be of no interest to the brothels. They were shot, and male slaves were forced to drag the bodies away.
Each gunshot sent a ripple of fear down the line. Older people, Margaret included, had reason to be especially fearful since they clearly had less value to potential customers than younger people did. So Margaret had mentally reconciled herself to being executed, and was trying to deal with that, as the woman directly in front of her was sent to join the work group. Having accepted her fate, the society matron took two steps forward, and looked into Tovar’s piggy eyes.
But there was no glimmer of recognition there, and that made sense. Because the woman the militia general had met years before had been wearing expensive jewelry and fashionable clothes, unlike the sunburned, travel-worn specimen who presently stood in front of him. So Margaret was nothing more than a piece of meat insofar as Tovar was concerned. However, thanks to some skillful plastic surgery, and the fact that Margaret kept herself fit, the society matron looked ten years younger than she actually was. That saved her life. “Put her in with the workers,” the slave master ordered harshly. “She won’t fetch much—but something is better than nothing.”
So Margaret survived. But it was a long walk from Dixon to San Jose, and by the time the column entered the convention center, she was bone tired. And that was why she went in search of a reasonably clean patch of duracrete and lay down. The surface was hard, but she was used to that, and soon fell asleep. There were dreams, good dreams, and a smile found her lips.
An entire day had passed since Margaret and the others had arrived in San Jose, and many of Tovar’s slaves had been sold. Now it was her turn to enter the center arena, along with five other women who were about to be bid on. Like the others, Margaret had been ordered to strip, but unlike the rest the society matron managed to keep her eyes up as she followed the others out into the artificial glare. Her body wasn’t what it had once been, but there was nothing to be ashamed of, and she wasn’t. Her clothes, including the all important bra, were clutched in her arms.
Meanwhile, just as the auction was about to start, shouts were heard when a tough-looking slaver led a column of ragged-looking men and women into the holding area adjacent to the arena. It was difficult to tell what was happening, but Margaret got the impression that because the newcomer wasn’t a member of the slaver’s guild, he wasn’t eligible to use the market. Loud altercations weren’t unusual, and the socialite didn’t think much of it, until the interloper pulled a gun and shot a guard in the face.
Foley saw the man’s head jerk backward, as a blue-edged hole appeared at the center of his forehead, and the “slaves” produced weapons of their own. There were lots of people around, most of whom were slaves, but the bad guys were easy to spot. They were the ones who had the guns and, given the element of surprise, Foley’s guerrilla fighters had an excellent opportunity to kill them—which is what they proceeded to do.
Margaret hit the floor as the bullets began to fly, heard someone yell something about the Earth Liberation Brigade, and realized the people she’d been looking for were all around her! But in order to deliver the tissue samples, she was going to have to survive, and that was why she decided to roll across the cold slimy floor. Not to get away, but to get her hands on a loose pistol, that lay only inches from a dead man’s outstretched hand.
Being no expert with small arms, Margaret had something of an aversion to semiautomatics, which always came equipped with levers and buttons, but this was an easy-to-fire energy pistol. She scooped the weapon up, rolled to her feet, and was looking for a target when a wounded Otto Tovar came lumbering straight at her. The slave master had taken a bullet in the left arm and was clearly in pain as he sought to escape.
Margaret saw the fear on the slaver’s face as she brought the weapon up. There was no recoil as the socialite pressed the firing stud and sent an energy bolt straight through Tovar’s body. Even though the slave master was effectively dead, he took three additional steps before falling facedown on the filthy floor. Margaret felt pleased with herself, pointed the pistol at Tovar’s back, and fired again. She knew Benson would approve.
Most of the slavers were down, and there was a very real danger of killing the people they had come to rescue, so Foley yelled, “Cease fire!” over and over again until the firing finally stopped. That was when specially trained teams of civilian volunteers entered to care for the wounded, take charge of orphaned children, and spray-paint carefully phrased warnings onto the walls. “The Confederacy lives. Its laws will be enforced. The Earth Liberation Brigade.”
And it was during that phase of the operation that Admiral Chien-Chu arrived to inspect his protégé’s work. Which, from the billionaire’s perspective, had gone very well indeed. Not only had innocent people been rescued, but a line had been drawn, and word of what had happened to the slavers would soon begin to spread.
That’s where the industrialist was, giving Foley some orders, when a muck-smeared woman approached them. Chien-Chu was well acquainted with Charles Vanderveen, a man he regarded as a friend, and knew Margaret Vanderveen, too. But not so well that he’d seen her with
out any clothes on.
“Hello, Sergi,” the socialite said calmly. “I’m Margaret Vanderveen, even if I don’t look the way I usually do, and I’ll bet you’re the man I’ve been looking for! I have reason to believe that at least some of the Ramanthians are dying from a contagious disease. Something they were exposed to here on Earth. And here are some tissue samples taken from a dead pilot.”
And with that, Margaret Vanderveen handed Sergi Chien-Chu her bra. It was, and would forever be, one of the few occasions when the Father of the Confederacy was rendered entirely speechless.
18
So long as there is even one brave soul willing to confront tyranny then hope will live.
—Hoda Ibin Ragnatha
Turr truth sayer
Standard year 2202
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE REPUBLIC
Santana couldn’t fly, but felt as if he could, as he looked at the video that was playing on the inside surface of his visor. What he was seeing, and to some extent vicariously experiencing, was what it was like to be Lieutenant Mitch Millar. The cyborg was skimming the surface of the small kidney-shaped lake that separated Alpha Company from the clones on the far side. It was almost dark, which meant there was some light to see by, but not enough to make the recon ball stand out as Millar crossed the opposite shoreline and entered a grove of bristly trees.
Conscious of the fact that Santana could see everything he saw, the cyborg paused to “eye” the area to the south, before firing his repellers, and rising straight up. Though similar to evergreens on Earth in that they had needles—the snow-clad trees surrounding the cyborg were significantly different as well. Because the grove that surrounded Millar was actually a single organism. While each vertical trunk had its own root system, it could share nutrients with neighboring structures via a complex system of interconnecting branches.
So as the legionnaire leveled off about fifty feet above the ground, it was necessary to negotiate a maze of crisscrossing branches in order to work his way into the area where the renegades were camped. That made navigation difficult but provided good cover as well. Finally, having arrived at the southernmost edge of that particular grove’s territory, Millar came to rest on some sturdy branches. As darkness crept in over the wintry landscape, both the cyborg and his commanding officer had a bird’s-eye view of the enemy encampment below. Having located Colonel Six and his hostages days earlier, Millar had given a tracking device to Kira Kelly. Which, for reasons unknown, had gone off-line hours later. But Millar was no fool and, having planted a second device on one of the half-tracks, he had been able to lead his comrades to the frozen lake where the renegades were camped.
Having chosen an open area, with good fields of fire, Colonel Six had positioned his vehicles to reinforce all four sides of the perimeter. Gaps had been filled with lengths of timber cut earlier in the day, backed by hand-dug firing pits. The defenses weren’t fancy, but the officer figured they would be effective against anything up to, and including, a company-strength attack by the Ramanthians.
Four fires had been lit and, as Millar and Santana looked down through a curtain of gently falling snow, they could see dark shapes moving back and forth between the dome-shaped tents as the clones carried out maintenance on their equipment and cooked their dinners. It was a peaceful scene familiar to any soldier.
The problem, from Santana’s perspective was how to attack the encampment, especially given the presence of hostages. He could try and take all or part of Alpha Company around the edge of the lake. But groves of interlocking trees barred the way and would prevent his cyborgs from reaching the campsite until well after dawn. Then, if the clones were still in residence, they would be able to see the enemy coming.
Santana knew that a force of bio bods might be able to arrive quickly enough to carry out a night attack, but Santana lacked a sufficient number of troops to go up against the Seebos and their vehicle-mounted weapons. Not even with the marines and CVAs thrown in.
So, where does that leave us? the cavalry officer wondered. The lake was frozen, but the ice wasn’t thick enough to support the weight of a T-2, much less a quad. So the direct route was out. Or was it? It was dark by then, and with his visor down, no one could see the officer smile.
Even though it was fairly warm inside the sleeping blanket, it was too cold to take off all her clothes, so Kelly was naked from the waist down, as she pulled Six deep inside her. The clone hadn’t been much of a lover initially, but practice makes perfect, and he had improved. It felt good to make love, to participate in an ancient act of renewal, especially given all the killing that was taking place around them.
But even as the long, steady strokes continued, and the pleasure began to build, Kelly felt the now-familiar pangs of guilt, knowing that by destroying the tracking device, Hospital Corpsman Sumi had been sentenced to further captivity.
And, if that wasn’t bad enough, Kelly had been unable to find the strength to tell Six about the recon ball’s visit. So she had been unfaithful to him as well.
Her lover’s movements became more urgent, causing the doctor to wrap her legs around his muscular body, and dig her fingers into his back. There were no thoughts beyond that point, just a desperate need for release, which came as an explosion of pleasure. But the moment was soon over, the afterglow began to fade, and reality seeped in to replace it. It was then, with Six still inside her, that Kelly began to cry.
Except for the circles of constantly shifting light that surrounded the fires, it was pitch-black outside the perimeter. So there was nothing for One-O to look at as he sat on top of the half-track, and waited for the rest of his two-hour watch to pass. Thanks to the night-vision goggles he was wearing, the clone knew that there weren’t any bugs advancing across the surface of the lake, so all he had to do was work the charging lever on the .50-caliber machine gun every five minutes or so, and try to stay warm. That wasn’t easy since he couldn’t leave the gun. Such were the soldier’s thoughts when the ice directly in front of him exploded—and a fifty-ton quad burst up out of lake!
Shards of shattered ice were still raining down on the camp as Private Ivan Lupo took three gigantic steps forward. The first and second carried him up onto the land, and the third came down on top of One-O, as the Seebo battled to bring the fifty into play. Both the clone and his half-track were crushed under the weight of the quad’s enormous foot pod.
Then, before anyone had time to react, servos whined as Lupo lurched forward. Sparks exploded into the air as his left forefoot landed in a fire, and the rattle of automatic fire was heard when a sentry opened up on the monster. Water continued to sheet off the cyborg’s hull, and steam rose off his back as he fired in return. Both the sentry and the Seebo standing next to him were vaporized as a quick flurry of energy bolts slagged their position.
The ramp was down by that time, which allowed three T-2s, their riders, and six additional bio bods to enter the fray. Santana and Deker were the first to exit the quad and, because all of Colonel Six’s heavy weapons were aimed outwards , they could enter the encampment without taking fire.
Millar had identified where Colonel Six was sleeping hours before, and put a spotlight on the tent from above, as Deker carried Santana over to it. Thanks to the Integrated Tactical Command system the legionnaire could make himself heard via all four cyborgs at the same time. “Hold your fire! Put down your weapons! You are under arrest!”
And with the huge quad crouched at the very center of the encampment, there was absolutely no doubt as to who the attackers were, or who would win if the clones chose to resist. Slowly, so as not to draw fire, the Seebos laid their weapons on the ground. A force of T-2s and bio bods quickly took charge of the clones and hurried to secure them.
Santana was on the ground with his CA-10 leveled at the entrance of the floodlit tent by the time Six emerged. He was still in the process of fastening his parka. The spotlight forced him to squint, but there was no mistaking the officer’s defiant expression. The legionnaire’
s voice was hard. “Are you Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666?”
The clone nodded as he looked around. “I am.”
“Pat him down and check his bar code,” Santana said grimly. “Let’s make sure he isn’t playing games again.”
It was Master Sergeant Dice Dietrich who came forward to do the honors. A search came up clean, and after scanning the bar code on the officer’s forehead, the noncom was able to confirm the Seebo’s identity. “It’s him all right,” Dietrich declared, his breath fogging the air.
“Good,” Santana replied. “Stash the colonel inside Lupo, search him again, and chain him to a bulkhead. Put two guards on him—and don’t use any marines or CVAs. The jarheads might kill him—and CVAs might listen to his bullshit.”
“Roger that,” Dietrich said, and led the officer away.
That was when the tent fabric shook and Kelly emerged. Her hair was mussed, her face was pale, and it was her turn to squint into the light. “Don’t tell me,” Santana said. “Let me guess. . . . You’re Dr. Kira Kelly.”
Kelly looked into the officer’s hard eyes and nodded.
“And Hospital Corpsman Sumi?” the legionnaire inquired. “Where is he?”
“I’m right here,” a voice said, and Santana turned to see that a navy medic was standing next to Staff Sergeant Briggs. “The rotten bitch slept with Colonel Six,” the corpsman said accusingly. “And did everything she could to help him.”
When Duty Calls Page 32
