When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  Fobor was obviously very proud of the system, and perhaps rightfully so, but when one of the combatants tore the other’s throat out, that was more than the Queen could take. There was a soft thump as the royal jumped down onto the ground, shuffl?ed over to the gate, and ordered the guard to open it. And, being a foot soldier, the trooper did as he was told. That enabled the monarch to pass through the fi?rst checkpoint unimpeded and begin the circular journey down to the second and last gate before anyone could stop her. Fobor was horrifi?ed and began to shout orders to his troops.

  “Don’t let her through! Prepare to fi?re on the prisoners! If you hit the Queen, I’ll kill you myself!”

  But Ubatha, who knew the Queen as well as anyone did, had noticed a change down in the pit. Not only were the juveniles staring at her majesty—they were strangely silent.

  “Keep your troops on standby,” the Chancellor instructed.

  “But allow the Queen to enter.”

  “But the nymphs will tear her apart!” the soldier objected.

  “Do what I say, or you’ll regret it,” Ubatha grated. And suddenly Fobor became conscious of the fact that while some of the royal’s bodyguards were aiming their weapons at the nymphs—others were pointing their assault rifl?es at him!

  Meanwhile, as the sovereign arrived in front of gate two, she was not only unaware of the drama playing itself out up on the surface but completely focused on the young Ramanthians in the pit. She could smell the acrid odor of their urine, see the intelligence in their shiny black eyes, and feel the blood-bond she shared with them.

  Fobor gave the only orders he could, the gate swung open, and the Queen entered the pit. The nymphs were motionless at fi?rst, and seemingly unaware of the targeting lasers that roamed their bodies as the regent plowed her way through six inches of urine, feces, and mud to reach the very center of the pit. Then, as the juveniles absorbed the rich amalgam of pheromones that surrounded the royal, a seemingly miraculous change came over them. A soft humming sound was heard as heads dropped, wings seemed to sag, and they shuffl?ed inwards. It soon became clear that rather than attack the monarch, as Fobor feared, each juvenile hoped to make physical contact with her. And as the Queen reached out to touch her adopted children, she sang to them in a language as old as the fi?rst nest, and fi?lled the air with the chemicals that they needed and wanted.

  It was the most amazing thing Fobor had ever seen, and he said as much. “Yes,” Ubatha agreed thoughtfully, as the royal worked her magic. “We are truly blessed.”

  The few active rebels must have the qualities of speed and endurance, ubiquity and independence of arteries of supply. They must have the technical equipment to destroy or paralyze the enemy’s organized communications.

  3

  —T. E. Lawrence

  “The Science of Guerrilla Warfare”

  Standard year 1929

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  The town of Strat’s Deep was located at the foot of the Hebron mountain range, right on top of a large deposit of nickel, about forty miles north of Tow-Tok Pass. There were a number of ways to reach the settlement, but given the fact that the Ramanthians were patrolling both the sky and the roads, Colonel Six and his men chose to approach the mining community via an old foot trail. Having arrived on a broad machine-carved ledge high above the town, the offi?cer ordered his troops to take cover in an abandoned mine shaft, and scanned Strat’s Deep through his binoculars. The town consisted of forty identical homes, all of which were bunched together on the west side of the railroad track that had been built to haul iridium away. Though no expert on the subject, Six knew iridium was a by-product of nickel and that there were two ways to extract the element from the planet’s crust. The fi?rst approach was called open-cut mining, which wasn’t practical given the steep terrain, and the fact that the ore was deep underground. For that reason a series of side-by-side shafts had been driven deep into the mountainside where the newly mined material was loaded onto the low-profi?le tunnel trucks that were used to bring the ore down to the processing plant. And, judging from what Six could see through his binoculars, the mine was still in operation. Was that because Ramanthians had occupied the town and were forcing the humans to work? Or because the locals hadn’t received instructions to shut the operation down? The latter was certainly possible given all the confusion.

  The answer soon became apparent as the offi?cer heard a loud thrumming sound and ducked as a Ramanthian shuttle passed overhead. The transport completed one circuit of the settlement before putting down at the center of the shabby town square. Six was still recovering from the shock associated with the aircraft’s sudden appearance when a squad of Ramanthians emerged from the administration building and herded a group of humans toward the shuttle. Meanwhile, what might have been boxes of rations or ammo were being unloaded and placed on the ground. Once that task was completed, the prisoners were forced to board the alien ship, which lifted off a few moments later. Six was hidden in a cluster of boulders by the time the shuttle passed overhead and departed for the south.

  The offi?cer waited for a full fi?ve minutes to make sure that the aircraft wouldn’t circle back before leaving his hiding place and crossing the ledge. Two heavily armed Seebos were on guard just inside the entrance to the mine and nodded to their CO as he entered. The rest of the company was camped about a hundred feet back and well out of sight. Lieutenant Seebo-790,444, better known to the troops as Four-Four, looked up from the pot he was tending. The junior offi?cer looked much as Six had twenty years earlier. “Pull up a rock, sir. Your tea will be ready in a minute.”

  It felt good to sit down, and as Six held his hands out to collect some of the fuel tab’s excess heat, he knew the chill in the air was nothing compared to what winter would bring.

  “So,” the younger offi?cer ventured. “How does it look?”

  “The town is crawling with bugs,” Six answered gloomily.

  “It’s my guess that they were dropped in during the early hours of the invasion.”

  “So you were right,” Lieutenant-44 mused, as he poured steaming-hot water into a metal mug. “They’re after the iridium.”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Colonel Six observed as he accepted his share of the tea. “I can’t think of any other reason to attack this slush ball.”

  Four-Four took a tentative sip from his mug, found the brew to his liking, and cupped the container with both hands. His breath fogged the air. “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’ll wait for nightfall, go down into the valley, and kill every chit we fi?nd,” Six replied coldly. The junior offi?cer raised an eyebrow. “And then?”

  “And then we’ll cut the tracks, blow the processing plant, and seal the mine. Winter’s coming, so it will be a good six months before the Ramanthians can reopen the facility. Assuming we don’t kick their assess off the planet before then.”

  Lieutenant-44 was silent for a moment as if considering what his superior had said. “What about the workers?” he inquired seriously. “There could be reprisals.”

  Colonel Six remembered the townspeople who had been loaded onto the Ramanthian shuttle for transportation to who knows where. “Yes,” he answered soberly. “Based on reports from inside the Confederacy, reprisals are extremely likely. Those who can fi?ght will be asked to join us. Those who can’t will create places to hide in old mine shafts like this one. And the locals know where they are.”

  Four-Four wasn’t sure how people would survive something like that but was careful to keep his thoughts to himself. The clones spent the afternoon catching up on sleep, cooking a communal meal, and maintaining their gear. Once the sun had set, the guerrilla fi?ghters followed their commanding offi?cer out of the mine shaft and down a weather-eroded access road toward the dimly lit town below. Thanks to the night-vision goggles they wore, everything had a greenish glow, but the soldiers were used to that, and quickly split into platoons. The fi?rst platoon, under Colonel Six, made its way toward
the administration building. Meanwhile the second platoon, under Lieutenant-44, was headed for the processing plant.

  Having had the town under observation all afternoon, the Seebos had a pretty good idea where most of the Ramanthians were, but there were other problems to cope with. Not the least of which was the necessity to eliminate all resistance without giving the bugs a chance to call in reinforcements. Fortunately, the clones had the element of surprise working in their favor. But they had something else going for them as well—and that was the strange, almost supernatural, relationship that existed between them. Because having been created from the same DNA, and raised with replicas of themselves, the Seebos were like fi?ngers on the same hand as they ghosted between the town’s mostly darkened buildings.

  There was little more than a series of soft pops as the sentries stationed outside the administration building fell, and the clones rushed to surround the structure. The clones knew that the facility had two entrances, and once both of them were covered, Six led a squad up onto the front porch. The door seemed to open on its own as one of the bugs sought to exit. So the offi?cer shot him in the face and pushed his way into the vestibule beyond.

  A second door opened onto a reception area, and three Ramanthians were already headed his way as Colonel Six entered. The offi?cer took them down with short bursts from his submachine gun (SMG) and shouted, “Kill the radio!” as the rest of the squad came in behind him.

  “Got it, sir!” a corporal replied as he fi?red three rounds into the rugged com set that occupied one of the desks. The alien RT took exception to that, produced a pistol, and was trying to bring the weapon to bear when the corporal fi?red again. The bug jerked spastically, fell over sideways, and began to leak green digestive goo onto the fl?oor.

  “Good work,” Six said grimly. “Find the rest of them.”

  “You came!” a female voice said gratefully, as the rest of the squad went looking for additional chits. “Thanks be to the founder!”

  That was when Colonel Six turned to see that half a dozen townspeople had been tied to chairs that lined one of the walls. The individual who had spoken was a member of the Mogundo line and therefore an administrator. The rest were Ortovs. A hardy line commonly used for industrial applications. “How many of you are there?” the offi?cer demanded brusquely.

  “Twenty-six,” the woman replied crisply. She had brown skin, fl?ashing black eyes, and a full fi?gure. The offi?cer imagined what she would look like without any clothes on, felt the usual response, and pushed the image away. Such thoughts were less frequent than they had been twenty years earlier but still plagued him.

  The sound of muted gunfi?re interrupted the offi?cer’s thoughts as the second platoon dealt with the Ramanthians in the processing plant. “Please! Stop the fi?ghting!” one of the Ortovs pleaded. “They have our children!”

  “She’s right,” the administrator put in, as a soldier cut her loose. “The Ramanthians took hostages earlier today.”

  Six nodded. “Yes, I know. And I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Gather your people together. . . . Tell them to pack cold-weather gear, plus food that won’t spoil, and bring it here. But only what they can carry on their backs. Because the bugs will return, and when they do, they’ll kill everyone they fi?nd.”

  “But what about our children?” the Ortov sobbed. “The ones they took?”

  Under normal circumstances, on planets like Alpha-001, clone children were raised in crèchelike institutions where they could be properly socialized. But that wasn’t always possible on less-developed planets like Gamma-014, where children were occasionally assigned to an appropriate community at the age of two, to be raised within the embrace of the profession to which they would one day belong. But that practice could lead to unacceptably strong bonds between individual adults and children, as was clearly the case where the distraught Ortov was concerned. Because even though she hadn’t given birth to a child, she clearly felt as if she had, and that was wrong.

  “Maybe the children will survive,” Colonel Six allowed, as the Ortov was freed. “But I doubt it. The Ramanthians regard mercy as a weakness, and if we’re going to beat them, we’ll have to be just as hard as they are. Now stop crying, get your things, and hurry back. I plan to pull out thirty minutes from now.”

  The woman began to sob, and might have remained right where she was, had two of her companions not taken the miner between them and half carried her away.

  “We have some explosives,” the administrator said helpfully. She was determined, and Six liked that.

  “Good,” the Seebo replied. “That means we can save what we have. Perhaps one of your people would show us where to place them?”

  The process of placing the charges, and pulling the civilians out of Strat’s Deep, took the better part of an hour, rather than the thirty minutes that Six had been hoping for. But it went smoothly, and once both the townspeople and the Seebos were assembled on the ledge above town, it was safe to trigger the charges. A series of muffl?ed thuds was heard, and the onlookers felt the explosions through the soles of their boots, as a rockslide clattered down a neighboring slope. “All right,” Colonel Six said grimly. “The bugs will come looking for us tomorrow. Let’s fi?nd a place to hide.” And with that, 150 people vanished into the night. Seven hours later, when the Ramanthians assigned to hold Strat’s Deep failed to check in as they were supposed to, and attempts to contact them failed, a quick-reaction force was dispatched. It wasn’t possible to assess the amount of damage infl?icted on the mine shafts from the air. But there was no mistaking the fact that the railroad tracks had been severed—and the processing plant had been reduced to a pile of smoking rubble.

  And when members of the elite Hammer regiment hit the ground, the town was empty except for the row of twentysix Ramanthian bodies laid out in front of the admin building, and the large numbers scrawled across the facade. The paint was red, the numerals were “666,” and none of the troopers knew what they meant.

  A report was written, approved, and passed up through the chain of command. And, when it appeared on Okoto’s computer screen, the general actually read it, a fact that would have amazed the lowly fi?le leader who authored it. The numbers “666” held no particular meaning for Okoto, but the offi?cer was a student of human warfare, and widely read. Which is why he went looking for a certain fi?le, brought it on-screen, and scanned for the passage he had in mind. It read:

  “Many people think it is impossible for guerrillas to exist for long in the enemy’s rear. Such a belief reveals lack of comprehension of the relationship that should exist between the people and the troops. The farmer may be likened to water and the latter to the fi?sh who inhabit it.”

  The text had been authored by a man named Mao TseTung. And he had been dead for a long, long time. But Okoto could tell that someone else was familiar with the revolutionary’s writings as well. Someone who was very, very dangerous. PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  President Marcott Nankool and his staff were quartered in the equivalent of a large if not especially posh hotel, which the Hegemony’s State Department ran for both the convenience of visiting dignitaries and its own intelligence service. The entire building was bugged, including conference rooms like the one that the visitors had been forced to meet in, which was why all of them were shooting the breeze, catching up on administrative tasks via their data pads, or simply staring into space as a team of four military technicians worked to sanitize the room. No doubt the clones would disapprove of the cleansing, but they couldn’t very well complain about it without admitting that they had been spying on their guests.

  The conference room was a long, rectangular space that had no architectural interest whatsoever, except for the gigantic fl?oor-to-ceiling window that took up most of the south wall and allowed Christine Vanderveen to look out over an angular cityscape. Thanks to a very effective weather-management system, it rarely rained during the day. That meant the founder’s architects had been able
to count on generous amounts of natural light and calculate the way that shadows would caress their buildings before constructing them—all of which was unique to clone society insofar as Vanderveen knew. Having located all the audio pickups, neutralized the photosensitive wall paint, and eradicated the tiny pinhead-sized robo cams that had been roaming the room, a harried-looking naval tech approached Legion General and Military Chief of Staff Bill Booly III. Although Vanderveen didn’t know the offi?cer well, she had seen him on many occasions over the years, and was surprised to see how much older he looked. He still had his mother’s gray eyes and his father’s athletic body. But his hair was shot with streaks of white, lines were etched into his face, and his skin was very pale, like someone who rarely gets any sun. “The room is clean, General,” the tech told him.

  “But we can’t guarantee that it will stay that way for more than an hour or so. The clones are sure to launch some sort of counterattack through the ventilation system.”

  Booly nodded. “That should be suffi?cient. Thanks for all the hard work.”

  The tech didn’t receive many “thank-yous,” especially from senior offi?cers, and was clearly pleased as he returned to the back of the room. Vanderveen watched the general walk over and say a few words to Nankool. Here we go, the diplomat thought to herself, as the president nodded. All of the small talk quickly came to an end as Nankool stood.

  “Okay, everybody,” the chief executive said, as he eyed the people assembled before him. “We have a counter from the Hegemony—so let’s get to it. There’s some good news and some bad news.”

  The announcement produced a chorus of groans, which Nankool acknowledged with a good-natured grin. “I’ll give you the good news fi?rst. Alpha Clone Antonio-Seven has agreed to a military alliance with the Confederacy. Beginning with a joint task force to liberate Gamma-014.”