When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  It was a large circular room with a highly polished white fl?oor. Triangles of shiny black marble pointed in toward the center of the space, where a beautiful green-and-blue double helix served as both pillar and sculpture. Vanderveen knew the column was intended to represent a single molecule of a chemical substance called deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA, which is the basic building block of all living organisms. The symbol had religious as well as scientifi?c signifi?cance for the clones.

  The sculpture shimmered as bars of light representing the four chemical compounds called bases fl?oated upwards and disappeared into the ceiling. A circular table fronted the column, and a man rose to greet them. The Alpha Clone went by the name Antonio Seven. His hair had once been black, and shiny with pomade, but that was long ago. Now it was white, and what remained of once-thick curls circled the ruler’s head like a silver crown. What hadn’t changed were the almost military manner in which he held his body, the Spartan black tunic that he favored, and the matching pantaloon-style pants. His bare feet made a slapping sound as he came forward to embrace Nankool. “Greetings old friend!” the Alpha Clone said warmly. “I’m afraid that Marcus is too sick to join us, and Pietro sends his apologies. The demands of government require his presence elsewhere.”

  That was a lie, since Pietro rarely did much of anything anymore, preferring to sit on his veranda and paint. But Antonio saw no reason to disclose that, both because it would have been disloyal to do so, and because it suited his purposes to conceal the extent to which he ran the government. The next forty-fi?ve minutes or so were spent making introductions, and consuming a seemingly endless procession of appetizers, as both sides began to jockey for position. This was a rather chaotic process in which Vanderveen found herself going one-on-one with a clone general. The topic of conversation was the pros and cons of Ramanthian assault rifl?es, a subject about which the military man was surprised to learn the young woman was quite knowledgeable.

  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to all but those gathered around Nankool and Antonio, a messenger arrived. After scanning the piece of paper that had been handed to him the Alpha Clone frowned. Nankool could sense that something important was in the offi?ng and was paying close attention when the other man opened his mouth to speak. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” Antonio said gravely. “But I just received word that Gamma-014 has been attacked by the Ramanthian Empire. And, based on preliminary reports, it appears the planet has fallen.”

  Gasps of surprise were heard, along with expressions of incredulity, as everyone sought to absorb the terrible news. Except that Nankool, who should have been sad, felt wildly jubilant instead. Because here it was! A heaven-sent opportunity to secure the alliance he so desperately needed!

  But none of that was visible on the politician’s face as he offered his condolences. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” the head of state said soberly. “And I’m sure I speak for the entire Confederacy when I say that we stand ready to fi?ght side by side with people of the Hegemony to stop Ramanthian aggression.”

  Vanderveen, who was close enough to hear, was impressed by the way the chief executive had been able not only to seize upon the unexpected opportunity but to do so in such a graceful manner. Meanwhile Antonio, who was increasingly burdened by his age, felt an impending sense of doom. Because not only was there the fate of Gamma014 to consider but it was likely that troublemakers within the Hegemony would use the Ramanthian attack to advance their demands for change. But it would have been a mistake to say any of those things out loud, or to accept Nankool’s offer of assistance without giving such an alliance careful thought, so Antonio sought to push the matter off. “Thank you for your condolences,” the Alpha Clone said feelingly. “We appreciate your kind thoughts. Now, if you will excuse us, my staff and I have work to do. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Nankool replied kindly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Antonio departed a few minutes later—with most of his senior offi?cials in tow. Given all the time they had spent together on Jericho, there was a special bond between Nankool and Vanderveen. A relationship the diplomat sought to downplay for the most part—but allowed her to address the president directly when she chose to do so. “So what do you think?” the foreign service offi?cer inquired, as she appeared at Nankool’s elbow.

  “I think the bugs are going to be sorry,” the president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings said grimly, as he popped a ripe olive into his mouth. “Very sorry indeed.”

  PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The robot army attacked at night, when their sensors would give them a signifi?cant advantage over the Legion’s bio bods, at least half of whom would probably be asleep. And, because Major Liam Quinlan had placed Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st REC along the front edge of the desert escarpment, they were the ones who took the brunt of the assault as the oncoming horde sought to break through the defenders and reach the power plant beyond. There were three types of robots, starting with skeletal androids, who stood six feet tall and carried assault weapons. Then came so-called rollers, which traveled on four fat tires but were equipped with six, and built in such a manner that they could perform somersaults and keep on going. Behind them were the aptly named slabs, which were low, heavily armed tanklike vehicles, specifi?cally designed to engage the Legion’s quads, who were armed with machine guns, energy cannons, and missiles. They unleashed a barrage of fi?re that swept across the top of the escarpment as hundreds of robots rushed forward to close with the enemy.

  Santana heard the explosions, rolled off his air mattress, and was exiting the command bunker when a simulated rocket landed not ten feet away. There was a fl?ash of light, followed by a loud bang, and something analogous to a mild electric shock as the indicator light attached to his body armor went from green to red. As that took place Santana’s name vanished off the ITC, and First Lieutenant Lucy Amoyo was put in command.

  All of which was readily apparent to General Mortimer Kobbi, who was seated in the command quad fi?ve miles to the rear, watching to see how the battalion would deal with the unexpected onslaught. It was disappointing to lose Santana early on, but that was often the way of things, and having served with the cavalry offi?cer on Savas, the general was already acquainted with the young man’s capabilities. So it was with considerable interest that Kobbi watched Amoyo rally the badly mauled company as the fi?rst wave of androids boiled up over the escarpment, a development Kobbi could monitor by listening to the company push and switching between the various video feeds that continued to pour in from bio bods and cyborgs alike.

  Meanwhile Santana, who was no longer allowed to interact with his subordinates, went in search of a place to sit and watch the action without getting in the way. Having found a fl?at rock, and placed his back against a boulder, Santana alternated between scanning the highly codifi?ed data available on his helmet’s HUD and the fi?reworks going off all around him. A line of simulated explosions rippled along the face of the escarpment as Dietrich triggered the mines placed there the evening before, and static rattled through the cavalry offi?cer’s helmet speakers as electronic counter measures (ECM) took roughly 10 percent of the aggressor bots off-line.

  Dozens of robots had been neutralized by that time and would remain right where they were until reactivated at the end of the exercise. But there were more of them, and Alpha Company was soon forced to fall back, as a tidal wave of androids and rollers came up over the ten-foot-high embankment. The battle was very realistic. So much so that Santana felt a moment of fear as a squad of robots stalked past him, their heads swiveling back and forth, their weapons at port arms. His heat signature was clear to see, but so was his indicator light, so the hostiles left Santana alone as a fl?are went off high above them. The eerie light threw harsh shadows toward the west, as the survivors of Alpha Company were forced to fall back on the rest of the battalion, and the fake power plant beyond.

  Which raised a rather interesting question. . . .
Where was the normally assertive Major Quinlan? Because so far, in spite of repeated calls from Amoyo, there had been no contact with Bat HQ other than with the CO’s radio tech (RT), who was busy routing everything to Captain Mitch Mays of Bravo Company because the XO had theoretically been

  “killed” by an infi?ltrator.

  It was a question that was of interest to General Kobbi as well, since Quinlan was still “alive” according to the ITC, but literally missing in action. There was a pause in the fi?ghting as Mays allowed the surviving members of Alpha Company to pass through his lines, followed by eerie screams as a fl?ight of unseen fl?y-forms swept in to provide close air support. Thunder rolled across the arid landscape as electronic “bombs” fell on the horde, fl?ashed as they went off, and left dozens of machines motionless on the battlefi?eld. That was when Quinlan’s voice was fi?nally heard. It sounded thick, as if the offi?cer had just awoken, and was a bit disoriented. “This is Zulu Six. . . . Alpha, no Bravo Company, will pull back to the defensive wall and hold. Over.”

  “No!” Santana said out loud. “There’s no way through the wall! The robots will crush Bravo Company against it!”

  Of course Captain Mays was no fool, and could see the same thing, since the very real steel wall that protected the fake power plant was twelve feet high, and the only entrance to the enclosure was on the southern rather than the northern perimeter. So the offi?cer objected, was immediately put down, and forced to obey Quinlan’s orders. With predictable results. Half an hour later, just as the sun started to peek up over the eastern horizon, the last member of the 2nd Battalion, 1st REC was offi?cially killed. His name was Liam Quinlan—and his promotion to lieutenant colonel came through later that same day.

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  As the imperial battleship Merciless and her escorts dropped into orbit around the Planet Jericho, the Queen was in the control room to witness the event. Not because the regent hadn’t seen a ship make planet fall before, but because the world below was of particular interest to her. Viewed from space, it was a beautiful planet, one of a number of such worlds granted to the empire in partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars. It was a Hive-normal planet, which meant it was Earth-normal, too, and had been home to an advanced civilization long before her race had risen to sentience. Evidence of that could still be seen in the ruins scattered about the world’s emerald green surface. But that was ancient and therefore boring history as far as the royal was concerned. Because her purpose in visiting Jericho was to assess the condition of the Ramanthian nymphs that had been hatched there over the last few months, thousands of whom had been left to fend for themselves in the wake of a commando-style raid by Confederacy forces. It was a calamity that she, as their moral, if not actual, parent, was obliged to mitigate.

  Five hours later the Queen shuffl?ed down a ramp and onto the surface of Jericho. The airstrip, which had only recently been carved out of the forest some twenty miles west of what had been Jericho Prime, was protected by guard towers and an electrifi?ed fence. The air immediately around the royal yacht was heavy with the acrid stench of ozone, and a series of loud pings was heard, as hot metal started to cool. Moments later an entire fi?le of heavily armed Ramanthian troopers moved in to protect the royal, not from alien soldiers, but an equally potent threat.

  The offi?cer in charge of the so-called reorientation center had been a largely unknown military functionary prior to being put in charge of the experimental facility. And, not having met a member of the royal family before, never mind the Queen herself, was understandably nervous as he bent a leg. “Welcome to Jericho, Majesty. Commander Sool Fobor, at your service.”

  “What are the fences for?” the royal inquired bluntly.

  “Do animals attack the airstrip?”

  Fobor looked from the Queen to Chancellor Ubatha as if beseeching him for help. One of the problems traditionally associated with the tercentennial birthing was that after millions of nymphs were born, the youngsters went through a wilding state during which they hunted in packs, killing and eating anything they came across before gradually becoming more biddable. It was a process that had been extremely hard on both Hive and Ramanthian society over the past 200,000plus years. Which was why the great mother ordered her subordinates to acquire planets like Jericho and seed them with eggs. And with predictable results. Because once hatched, the voracious predators began to roam Jericho like blood-crazed beasts, killing everything they encountered—members of their own species included. So, never having dealt with a royal before, Fobor didn’t know how to respond. Ubatha came to his rescue. “The fences are positioned to keep the nymphs out, Your Excellency,” the Chancellor put in carefully. “They can be quite violent as you know.”

  “Not anymore,” the Queen objected staunchly, as she eyed the tree line. “The wilding should have been over weeks ago.”

  “True,” Ubatha replied patiently. “Except that once the aliens destroyed the processing centers, the nymphs were left on their own. And, in the absence of proper socialization, some of them turned feral.”

  “We’re doing the best we can,” Fobor said defensively.

  “But having missed the point in their neurological development where the nymphs are most biddable, it’s been very diffi?cult to work with them. Perhaps her majesty would allow me to show her one of the holding pens?”

  The Queen thought the term “holding pen” was objectionable, but rather than strike out at the offi?cer the way she wanted to, she managed to keep her temper in check. “Show me,” she grated.

  So the royal entourage was invited to board armored cars, which passed through a gate and followed a dirt road into the jungle. Though unable to look up through the metal roof, the royal ordered the driver to open the vehicle’s windows. That allowed the Queen to peer out into the sun-dappled depths of the triple-canopy forest that surrounded them. It was an environment very similar to the equatorial zone on Hive, where the Ramanthian race had risen to sentience. The process had been heavily infl?uenced by the fact that the species had been gifted with two types of females. Most females could lay a maximum of three eggs, thereby replacing one three-person family unit, while a small number, like the Queen herself, were physiologically capable of producing billions of new citizens. Just as her predecessor had. Not frequently, but every three hundred years or so, as the overall population began to level off or decline.

  The general effect of that phenomenon was to push the race forward, but at the expense of social turmoil, and terrible famines. But not anymore, the royal thought to herself. Now we can hatch our eggs on planets like this one and protect the citizens of Hive from harm. That was the plan anyway, but owing to a series of unforeseen events, the local maturation process had been compromised.

  There was a commotion as the convoy came to a halt, and troopers were deployed to form a protective ring around the Queen and her entourage as the visitors exited their vehicles. It was hot and humid, so the royal removed her green cloak, and threw it into the back of the armored car. That left her wearing light body armor over a sleek bodysuit. Not the sort of outfi?t the great mother would have approved of. By that time Ubatha, as well as the rest of the royal party, had become aware of the acrid scent of urine and a lowpitched gibbering sound that emanated from someplace nearby. “Please follow me,” Commander Fobor instructed, and led the Queen’s entourage along a path that wound through the trees. Moments later the group emerged into a clearing in which heavy equipment had been used to dig three enormous pits. Each was about two hundred feet across, roughly fi?fty feet deep, and covered with wire mesh so the inmates couldn’t escape by using their wings. The ever-present fl?y cams darted out to capture shots of the facility, but were soon recalled, since it wasn’t the sort of video deemed appropriate for the empire’s citizens to see. An observation platform had been constructed next to Pit One, and the rest of the party followed as Fobor shuffl?ed up onto the fl?at surface. Meanwhile, down in the muddy cavity below, a
pair of sharp-beaked nymphs were fi?ghting to see which one of them would get to consume a chunk of raw meat. The rest of the prisoners, some twenty in all, made growling sounds and appeared ready to rush in if there was an opportunity to advantage themselves. “We capture them out in the jungle,” Fobor explained helpfully. “Then we bring them here, where our sociologists begin to work with them. Once a particular individual begins to demonstrate the right sort of behaviors, he or she is transferred to Pit Two, where further socialization takes place. Then it’s on to Pit Three, graduation into a crèche, and formal schooling.”