When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  Santana wanted to object—but had no grounds to do so other than his suspicions. Which, were he to voice them, would sound churlish and ungrateful. So, there was nothing he could say or do, other than to sign the report and return the stylus to Quinlan’s obsessively neat desk. “Excellent,”

  the other man said, as he took the hard copy and put it aside. “Now that we have that out of the way we can talk off the record. Man-to-man if you will. Beginning with your proclivity for insubordination.”

  It was at that point that Santana understood how skillfully he had been manipulated. Though unwilling to cast the outcome of the mission in a negative light where offi?cial records were concerned, lest that spoil his long-awaited promotion, Quinlan was free to say whatever he chose. The hatch was open too, which meant Private Kaimo was intended to hear, so she could share the high-level drama with her peers.

  “Yes,” the major continued, as if in response to an unvoiced objection from Santana. “Gross insubordination. Which, if it weren’t for the pressures of combat, I would feel compelled to put into writing.”

  My God, Santana thought to himself. He’s speaking for the record! On the chance that I’m recording him!

  “But it’s my hope that a verbal warning will suffi?ce,”

  Quinlan said reasonably. “When I give orders, I expect them to be obeyed, regardless of the circumstances. Understood?”

  There was only one answer that the cavalry offi?cer could give. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Good,” Quinlan said contentedly. “It’s my hope that you will prove to be a more reliable leader than your father was.”

  The surprise that Santana felt must have been visible on his face because the other offi?cer reacted to it. “Yes,” Quinlan confi?rmed. “Back when I was a newly hatched lieutenant, and your father was a staff sergeant, we served together. Unfortunately, I found Sergeant Santana to be a somewhat hardheaded young man who was frequently disrespectful and occasionally insubordinate. Which is, I suppose, how you came by it.”

  “Top” Santana had been killed fi?ghting the Thraks inside the Clone Hegemony. During the years prior to being admitted to the academy, Santana had spent very little time with his father. No more than twelve months spread over eighteen years. Just one of the many disadvantages of being born into a military family. But Santana remembered the man with the hard eyes, knew what he expected from the offi?cers he reported to, and could imagine the extent to which Second Lieutenant Quinlan had fallen short. “Yes,” the cavalry offi?cer replied gravely. “My father made a strong impression on me.”

  “Enough said,” the major replied, as if conferring a favor.

  “We’ll be back on Adobe six days from now—where we can build on this experience to make the battalion even more effective. Dismissed.”

  Most of us are going back, Santana thought to himself. But four of our legionnaires will remain here. The dark-haired offi?cer rose and saluted.

  Quinlan made use of his swagger stick to acknowledge the gesture, let the back of the chair absorb his considerable weight, and watched Santana leave. I own you, the offi?cer thought to himself. And, when the need arises, I will spend you as I see fi?t.

  2.

  And a great pestilence will be upon the stars, as billions are born, and billions must die.

  —Author unknown

  The Pooonara Book of Prophecies

  Standard year 1010 B.C.

  ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN CARRIER SWARM

  The carrier was in hyperspace, so the enormous hangar bay was pressurized as General Oro Akoto looked out over the two thousand eight hundred members of the Death Hammer Regiment. The Hammer, as it was popularly known, consisted of three battalions of crack troopers who were all standing at attention as they waited for the new Queen to appear. They were dressed in ceremonial attire, rather than combat armor, and stood with their wings respectfully vertical. The air was thick with the combined odors of chitin wax, cold metal, and ozone.

  Akoto’s division included two other regiments as well, each on its own ship, as a Ramanthian Battle Group that consisted of more than fi?fty vessels prepared to strike deep into the Clone Hegemony. A powerful force, or that’s how it appeared, but the general knew better. The truth was that only one-third of the division, the regiment now before him, was truly battle-ready. The other regiments had been cobbled together from support battalions, reserve units, and so-called veteran volunteers. Meaning middle-aged warriors who were fi?t for garrison duty but not much else. However, the choice to use such a force was not motivated by desperation, but the Queen’s belief that it would be adequate for the job, even if Akoto wasn’t so sure. Would the previous sovereign have overridden his judgment? No, the old warrior didn’t believe so, but the new Queen was very different from the “great mother,” the much-loved monarch who had sacrifi?ced herself in order to bring more than fi?ve billion new citizens into the galaxy.

  Akoto’s thoughts were interrupted by a ceremonial blare of foot-powered battle horns as the Queen shuffl?ed up a ramp to join him on the speaker’s platform. In marked contrast to the great mother, who had been incapacitated by her egg-swollen body during the fi?nal years of her life, the new monarch was not only extremely fi?t but dressed in spotless combat armor, signifying her intention to take the same risks her subjects did. It was a decision that horrifi?ed her advisors and thrilled the Ramanthian populace. As the so-called warrior queen arrived on the platform, and Akoto bent a knee, the offi?cer felt his body respond to the cloud of pheromones that surrounded the royal. The chemicals caused him and every other Ramanthian who came into contact with them to feel protective, receptive, and willingly subservient. The royal’s space black eyes glittered with intelligence as she motioned for the offi?cer to rise. “Good morning, General. . . . Or is it afternoon? It’s hard to tell sealed inside this ship.”

  It was a simple joke. But one that made her seem more accessible. The banter was captured by the hovering fl?y cams that were present to record the moment for both historical and propaganda purposes. It was just one of the many tasks for which Chancellor Itnor Ubatha had responsibility. The civilian followed the monarch out onto the platform, took his place behind her, and felt a sense of satisfaction as he looked out over the warriors arrayed in front of the royal. Ramanthian citizens everywhere would feel a sense of pride as they watched their Queen address her troops prior to battle.

  “Greetings,” the Queen said, as she stepped up to the mike. And that was the moment when the members of the Hammer realized that the royal was wearing armor identical to theirs. The high honor elicited a loud clack of approval as 5,600 pincers opened and closed at the same time.

  “Seek approval, and enjoy its warmth, but under no circumstances come to rely on it.” That was one of the many teachings that the Queen had learned from her predecessor, which was why she made a conscious effort to discount the applause, and went straight to the point. Her much-amplifi?ed voice was piped into every nook and cranny of the ship. “By this time tomorrow, you will be on the surface of Gamma014 doing battle with the Clone Hegemony,” the royal said.

  “There are two reasons for this. First, because the clones are human and will inevitably be drawn to their own kind. And second, because Gamma-014 is rich in a mineral called iridium, which we need for a multiplicity of applications.”

  Ubatha had heard both arguments before but remained unconvinced. Yes, the clones came from human stock, but they believed themselves to be both morally and physically superior to the rest of the “free-breeding” species. That meant there was an opportunity to drive a wedge between the two groups, or would have been, had the royal been willing to pursue diplomacy rather than war. And there were plenty of other planets with signifi?cant deposits of corrosion-resistant iridium, so why go after Gamma-014?

  Unless there was a third reason for the unprovoked attack, something the Queen wasn’t ready to share with even her most senior advisors—but would prove compelling once it was understood. Ubatha hoped so. Because the altern
ative was to conclude that the new sovereign wasn’t all that bright. A depressing thought indeed.

  “You will have the element of surprise,” the Queen assured her troops. “And you will outnumber clone military forces two to one. But most importantly, you will be armed with the inherent superiority of the Ramanthian race, which is destined to rule the galaxy.” That was the line the regiment’s political offi?cers had been waiting for, and they took the lead as a resounding clack echoed between durasteel bulkheads.

  “Finally,” the monarch concluded. “Know this. When you land on Gamma-014, I will land with you.”

  That statement resulted in a storm of frenzied clacking, which continued even after the royal had left the platform and made her way down to the deck below. The people of Gamma-014 didn’t know it yet, but death was on the way.

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  The Ramanthian attack came without warning as dozens of warships emerged from hyperspace, quickly destroyed the tiny contingent of navy vessels that were in orbit around the planet, and spewed hundreds of aerospace fi?ghters into the atmosphere. There were no pronouncements from space and no requests for surrender, as the sleek aircraft began a carefully planned series of surgical strikes. Precision-guided bombs hit government buildings, leveled power plants, and fl?attened the main military base. The targeting data had been gathered by Ramanthian, Thraki, and Drac merchants during the preceding year. But, thanks to careful planning on the part of General Akoto, certain airfi?elds, roads, and bridges were spared. The reason for that strategy soon became apparent as a swarm of assault boats dropped out of space, bucked their way down through the planet’s frigid atmosphere, and sought their preassigned landing zones. There were only twenty-three major cities on the sparsely settled planet, so it wasn’t long before they were in enemy pincers, as the Queen landed and symbolically entered the rubble-strewn capital. The fact that she was carrying an assault rifl?e wasn’t lost on the population of the Ramanthian home planet when they saw the video less than an hour later. The propaganda coup would have been impossible back when messages were carried aboard ships or faster-than-light (FTL) message torpedoes. But now, thanks to the new hypercom technology that had been developed by Ramanthian scientists, real-time communication over interstellar distances was an everyday reality.

  Decisive though the alien victory was, there were holdouts. One was a clone offi?cer named Colonel Jonathan Alan Seebo-62,666, who, like all of the soldiers both above and below him, was a genetic replica of a dead hero who was said to have embodied all of the military virtues. Which was why the original Seebo had been chosen by founder Carolyn Hosokowa to “father” an entire army.

  This approach, when replicated across all professions, was intended to produce ideal citizens, each playing his or her part in a nearly perfect society. But even though their genes were identical, each clone had different experiences, which made them individuals. Some of whom, like the increasing number of people who favored “free breeding,” threatened to bring the carefully designed social structure crashing down around them. For there was no place for so-called accidental people in a strictly hereditary society. Or that’s the way Colonel Six and other social conservatives saw it. Of course all such concerns were placed on the back burner when the Ramanthians attacked. Once it became clear that the planet’s orbital defenses had been crushed, and the Ramanthians were landing in force, “Colonel Six,” as most people called him, took immediate action. The offi?cer was in charge of the army’s Cold Weather Survival school located at the foot of a rugged mountain range. It was a military facility that had been used to train thousands of troops over the years but was currently on hiatus until the really cold weather set in. That meant only forty-six instructors and support personnel were present. That was the bad news. The good news was that all the Seebos under the colonel’s command were battle-hardened veterans who knew how to survive in a wintry environment and fi?ght a guerrilla-style war, which was what the clone offi?cer fully intended to do.

  And, thanks to the fact that Six was in charge of a facility that was both remote and intentionally primitive, the bugs left the Spartan base alone as the Seebos took all of the supplies they could carry, loaded them onto genetically engineered pack animals, and disappeared into the mountains. It was a seemingly meaningless event in the grand scheme of things, but one that would cost the Ramanthians dearly over the days and weeks to come. For there was only one thing more dangerous than winter on Gamma-014, and that was Colonel Six.

  PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  A signifi?cant portion of the spaceport had been sealed off from regular traffi?c, fl?ags snapped in a stiff breeze, and rows of Jonathan Alan Seebos stood at attention as the spotless shuttle settled onto its skids. As the main hatch began to cycle open, a band comprised of nearly identical musicians struck up “All Hail to the Confederacy,” which seemed pretty unlikely as the Ramanthians won battle after battle, and the government was forced to go looking for new allies. The once-hostile Hudathans were on board, but the Clone Hegemony considered itself to be nonaligned, something President Marcott Nankool was determined to change as he stepped out into bright sunlight.

  A receiving line that consisted of senior government offi?cials was waiting to greet Nankool and his staff as they stepped onto the blast-scarred tarmac. The clones who had met the president on previous occasions took note of the fact that he was at least forty pounds lighter since his stint in a Ramanthian POW camp.

  Precedence is important where diplomatic matters are concerned, so Christine Vanderveen found herself toward the tail end of the Confederacy’s delegation, in spite of her recent promotion from Foreign Service Offi?cer (FSO)-3 to FSO-2. It involved a signifi?cant increase in authority and responsibility that was partly the result of the manner in which she had distinguished herself while on Jericho. An experience shared with Nankool, who had been on his way to visit the Hegemony, when captured by the enemy. But rather than resent her relatively low status in the delegation, Vanderveen relished it, knowing that very little would be expected of her until actual negotiations got under way. That meant she had more time to look around and absorb the atmosphere as her superiors shook hands with peers, told lies about how wonderful the Hegemony was, and began what was sure to be a high-stakes round of negotiations. Because without help from the Hegemony, which was to say hundreds of thousands of Seebos, there was a very real possibility that the Confederacy would dissolve into its component parts, all of whom would vie with each other to cut a deal with the Ramanthians.

  As Vanderveen made her way down the receiving line, one of the fi?rst people she ran into was Ewen Ishimoto-Nine, the Hegemony’s ambassador to the Confederacy. He was normally stationed on Algeron, where the Confederacy’s government had taken up temporary residence, but was home because of the visit. Rather than kiss her on the cheek, as the diplomat normally would, Vanderveen’s counterpart was careful to shake her hand instead. Because kissing, like all other aspects of free-breeder sex, was offi?cially frowned upon. “Christine,”

  Ishimoto-Nine said warmly. “I was so very happy to hear of your safe return.”

  Vanderveen said, “Thank you,” and wanted to talk more but was forced to move on. That was when she was introduced to Henry Hyde-Fifteen, the deputy secretary of state, as well as his boss, Carly Chambers-Ten, the secretary of state, both of whom were friendly if somewhat distant. Normally at least one of the Hegemony’s three Alpha Clones would have been present to receive a head of state, but none were. Was that an intentional snub? Or a manifestation of how busy they were? There was no way to know. The bar codes that all of the clones wore on their foreheads took some getting used to, as did the fact that when Vanderveen looked over at the band, the only factor that distinguished one musician from the next was their relative ages. But there wasn’t all that much time for refl?ection as the receiving line spit her out and the offi?cer in charge of Nankool’s security detail herded the VIPs toward a convoy of six-wheeled limos, eac
h of which fl?ew a small Confederacy fl?ag from whip-style antennae. The legionnaire didn’t look the least bit like Santana but had a similar manner and served to remind the diplomat of the leave the two of them had shared on Earth. Where was he, she wondered? Back on Adobe? Or on his way to some other hellhole? It wasn’t easy maintaining a relationship when both of them were on the move and a war was under way.

  Orders were given, doors slammed, and the convoy departed. Having found herself in a car with three administrative assistants, Vanderveen took advantage of her new rank and maintained a lordly silence. Bio bods mounted on Trooper IIs jogged alongside the vehicles, weapons at the ready, as the motorcade left the spaceport and entered the city beyond. The metroplex was a study in symmetry. Grid-style streets met each other at right angles, box-shaped buildings stood in orderly rows, and a cookie-cutter park occupied every sixth block.

  But, having read the fi?fty-page intelligence summary that Madam Xanith’s people had prepared for Nankool and his staff, Vanderveen knew that the city was actually less orderly than it appeared. Tensions were seething just below the surface—including the discontent being voiced by a nascent opposition party. Young people, for the most part, some of whom were rumored to be “naturals,” and hoped to overthrow the hereditary dictatorship in favor of a democracy. The opposition consisted of social conservatives and secret death squads that might or might not include members of the police.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, two clone policemen, both riding gyro-stabilized unicycles, pulled even with Vanderveen’s limo. Both wore white helmets equipped with face shields, black body armor, and combat boots. One of the clones looked straight at the diplomat, and she felt a chill run down her spine, as he nodded and accelerated away. The motorcade turned onto a tree-lined boulevard shortly after that. Ranks of citizens lined both sides of the street. They had been ordered to come out and welcome Nankool to Alpha-001 whether they wanted to or not. And because the Hegemony’s citizens had been prevented from intermarrying, and reproducing in what Vanderveen considered to be the normal manner, they stood in the racial groupings that coincided with their professions. Computer technicians here, dental assistants there, and so forth all according to a plan handed down from on high. What are they thinking? the diplomat wondered, as the black, brown, and white faces slid by. Do they favor an alliance with us? Would they prefer to go it alone? There was no way to tell because, in keeping with the orderly nature of clone society, citizens weren’t allowed to cheer, hurl insults, or pepper the motorcade with rotten fruit. All the clones could do was wait for the foreign dignitaries to roll past, then return to their jobs. By peering past the driver, Vanderveen could see the low, boxlike structure that lay ahead. It was topped with a dome and soon proved to be the motorcade’s destination as the lead vehicle swept around a circular driveway and paused under a formal portico, where a clutch of ominous T-2s stood waiting. Many of the cyborgs wore the machine equivalent of tattoos—some of which were quite fanciful. It took a while for the more senior offi?cials to exit their cars, but Vanderveen’s opportunity eventually came, and the diplomat followed a gaggle of talkative undersecretaries into the capitol building. A formal reception area led to a short fl?ight of stairs and the corridor beyond. Heels clicked on stone, and voices echoed between barren walls, as a guide led the presidential party past a checkpoint and into the Chamber of Governmental Process.