When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  The remaining battle platforms could launch fi?ghters, however—a threat that the Ramanthians would have to counter. For that reason Admiral Lorko planned to put most of his capital ships against Battle Stations III and IV, while sending a swarm of smaller craft to suppress the aerospace fi?ghters from I and II. If all went well, both platforms would be effectively sidelined.

  Meanwhile, aware that there were fortifi?cations on the moon, Old Iron Back planned to neutralize the batteries in the fastest and most expedient manner possible—nuke them. And that was the way the human colonies on Mars and Jupiter’s moons would be dealt with as well. While Earth had value as a bargaining chip, the rest of the solar system’s settlements weren’t worth occupying, and could be dispensed with. Yes, the Queen knew that the humans would make use of the new hypercom technology to call for help, which was why a signifi?cant portion of the fl?eet was being held in reserve. But given the alliance with the Clone Hegemony, plus confl?icts elsewhere, it wasn’t clear if the Confederacy would be able to respond in time. The coming hours and days would tell. In spite of whatever minor doubts she had, the Queen believed the strategy would work as she looked down upon the jewel-like planet that hung below her. Animals lived on it now. But someday, perhaps thirty years in the future, all of them would be dead.

  BATTLE STATION III, IN ORBIT AROUND PLANET EARTH,THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  “All civilian and supernumerary personnel will report to the mess deck, where they will receive combat support assignments. . . .” Battle Station III’s primary Command & Control (C&C) computer’s soft, dispassionate voice was supposed to communicate a sense of calm, even if that didn’t match what was going on. A fl?ight of three enemy missiles struck the station within yards of each other. And the nearly simultaneous explosions caused a shield generator to overload. That created a momentary hole in the space station’s defenses, which one of the Ramanthian fi?ghters managed to exploit by fi?ring a torpedo through it. The entire habitat shuddered as the missile penetrated the hull and killed people. Within seconds the surrounding airtight compartments sealed themselves off and prevented what could have been an even larger catastrophe as the C&C computer delivered the latest piece of bad news. “The battle station’s primary weapon system is off-line,” the computer intoned emotionlessly. “Secondary and tertiary weapons have been delegated to local control. All damage-control parties will report to . . .”

  Lieutenant JG Leo Foley didn’t care where the damagecontrol parties were going to report. All he wanted to do was to escape the battle station’s brig, round up some sort of transportation, and get the hell off the platform before the bugs began to board it. Because there wasn’t a man or woman in the navy who hadn’t heard about the slaughter that took place aboard the Gladiator once the crew put down their arms and surrendered. Some of the POWs had been taken off the battlewagon to serve as slave labor, but many had been murdered, or left to die when the ship blew. And, assuming the stories were true, the chits were especially hard on offi?cers. Which Foley still was, for the moment at least. Foley’s thoughts were interrupted as a hatch opened and a fi?rst-class petty offi?cer appeared. His arms were full of printouts, and it looked as though the rating had been ordered to feed the pile of documents into a shredder bolted to the opposite bulkhead. All things considered, that was not a good sign. “Jonesy!” Foley said imploringly. “You’ve got to let me out of here! You know what the bugs will do if they board. Give me a fi?ghting chance!”

  “Yeah!” a neighboring prisoner agreed loudly. “You heard the loot—give us a fi?ghting chance!”

  The shredder made a grinding noise as the jailer fed sheaves of paper into it. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  Jones inquired rhetorically. “Rather than fi?ght, you eight balls would run for the nearest escape pod!”

  Foley had something more comfortable than an escape pod in mind, but knew better than to say so, and continued to plead his case. “No way, Jonesy. . . . Let us out of here, give us weapons, and we’ll make the bugs pay!”

  There was a chorus of agreement from the other holding cells as the petty offi?cer fed the last sheets of paper into the shredder. The battle station shuddered as something blew, and the deck started to tilt as 12 percent of the habitat’s steering jets went off-line. Perhaps it was that, as much as anything else, that caused the noncom to pause and reconsider. Foley was a thief by all accounts, although the charges against the offi?cer had yet to be proven, which meant he was theoretically innocent. The rest of the prisoners were enlisted personnel who had been charged with offenses ranging from sleeping on duty to running a distillery down in the battle station’s engineering spaces. All of which were serious offenses, but they didn’t justify the death penalty. And none of them deserved to be killed like rats in a trap. Because, based on what Jonesy had heard, Foley was right. The Ramanthians were merciless. “I’ll probably regret this,” the PO said, as he rounded the duty desk. “But what the hell? I never expected to make chief anyway.”

  A meaty fi?nger stabbed at the touch-sensitive screen, six indicator lights went from red to green, and there was a metallic clang as all the doors slid open. The prisoners were free!

  Or so it seemed. But moments after rushing out of their cells, and milling around inside the detention facility, a new announcement came over the PA system. And, rather than the well-modulated tones typical of the C&C computer, this voice was human. Thereby raising the possibility that the Command & Control computer was belly-up, too. “This is Lieutenant Commander Nidifer,” the female voice said. “All hands will stand by to repel boarders. I repeat, all hands will stand by to repel boarders.”

  Foley swore. It didn’t take a fl?eet admiral to fi?gure out that if the main battery was off-line, and most of the secondary armament was down, then the bugs were going to come aboard and clean house. And, worse yet from his perspective, the fi?ve pounds of stardust that he’d been willing to sacrifi?ce his navy career to steal was locked up where he couldn’t get at it!

  But there wasn’t anything Foley could do about it, so the larcenous offi?cer made his way out into the main passageway. It was a madhouse. Horns, Klaxons, and smoke detectors continued to honk, bleat, and buzz. The sick bay was full, and had been for some time, which explained why a long line of wounded sailors and marines lay on stretchers next to the outboard bulkhead. Medics were trying to help them, but there weren’t enough hospital corpsmen to go around, so it was already too late for some of the patients. Most of the people who were jogging, limping, or being carried past Foley were dressed in pressure suits, a reminder that, because Foley didn’t have one, and wasn’t likely to get his hands on one, he could wind up sucking vacuum. Especially if the chits blew a really big hole in the hull. Foley felt someone touch his arm and turned to fi?nd that a dozen brig rats were standing behind him. A second-class petty offi?cer stepped forward. The name on his jumper was Tappas. He was thirty or so, had boyish features, and intelligent eyes.

  “Okay, sir,” Tappas said calmly. “What do we do now?”

  Foley’s plans, such as they were, didn’t include anyone other than himself. But the sailors looked so forlorn that he couldn’t bring himself to refuse them. “It sounds like the chits are about to board,” Foley said. “So we’re going to need some weapons.”

  Tappas nodded. “Yes, sir. Then what?”

  Foley, who had been planning to steal a six-person lifeboat, was forced to change his thinking. “Once we have the weapons we’ll make a run for the fl?ight deck, grab a shuttle, and head dirtside for some well deserved R&R.”

  It was exactly the kind of plan that Tappas and the rest of the brig rats wanted to hear. So they were quick to follow as Foley led them up corridor toward access way P-8. The corridor would carry the group in toward the lift tubes that were clustered around the battle station’s hollow core, a twelvedeck-tall structure that was home to the habitat’s fusion reactor, the power accumulators that fed the main battery, and the argrav generators.

 
Thanks to the confusion, no one thought to ask Foley where he was going. With an offi?cer in the lead, the brig rats looked like a work detail as they jogged single fi?le along the main corridor, accumulating weapons along the way. Which wasn’t all that hard to do given that the wall-mounted arms lockers were open and rows of neatly racked weapons were there for the taking. Energy rifl?es for the most part, since they were less likely to punch a hole in the battle station’s hull, and let the habitat’s atmosphere out. But, having made good progress for a while, Foley and his men ran into a roadblock as they approached Lock 8. There was a fl?ash of light as an energy grenade went off, followed by a concussive bang, and the staccato whine of energy weapons as blue energy bolts stuttered back and forth. “It’s the bugs!” a wild-eyed marine captain announced, as he lurched out of the drifting smoke. Foley saw the bandage that had been tied around the other offi?cer’s head was red with blood, and one of his arms hung uselessly by his side. “Come on!” the leatherneck urged. “Follow me!”

  So Foley followed, knowing that if he and his men were going to reach their objective, they would have to pass the lock. And, having very little choice, Tappas and the rest of the brig rats followed. Bodies lay in heaps where an earlier attempt to board the battle station had been repulsed. But just barely, as was obvious from the fact that most of the casualties were human, and only a handful of marines remained to defend the lock as another assault began. A hail of energy bolts sleeted back and forth as a fi?le of heavily armored Ramanthians surged out, fi?ring as they came. And, had the jarheads been forced to battle the aliens alone, the bugs would have been able to break through. But that was when Foley and the brig rats arrived, crouched behind the makeshift barrier that had been established earlier, and opened fi?re. A Ramanthian trooper went down as energy bolts from a half dozen weapons punched holes in his armor. The contest was far from one-sided, as the enemy troopers turned toward their tormentors and fi?red. They were using projectile weapons, and one of the brig rats was snatched off his feet, as a slug hit him in the chest. That made Tappas angry, and the petty offi?cer rolled an energy grenade into the enemy formation, as his companions continued to spray the aliens with energy bolts. There was a bright fl?ash of light, three Ramanthians were blown apart, and pieces of shattered chitin whirled through the air. The bugs appeared to waver, started to fall, and were subsequently cut down as the sheer volume of defensive fi?re punched holes through their armor. The battle ended three minutes later. Having never fought an infantry action before, the brig rats were impressed by their achievement, and were busy high-fi?ving each other when Tappas noticed that Foley was twenty yards up the corridor and gaining speed. “Come on!”

  the petty offi?cer shouted. “Follow the loot!”

  The sailors were quick to respond, as were the jarheads, who had their company commander sandwiched between them as they carried the offi?cer along. “Follow me!” the wildeyed marine exclaimed. “Let’s kill the bastards!”

  Foley saw markers for access corridor P-8, took a glance over his shoulder, and was amazed to discover that the group behind him had grown even larger! Not a good thing from the fugitive’s perspective since it didn’t make sense to go AWOL with the equivalent of a brass band and a couple dozen witnesses along for the ride. But it was too late to worry about such matters as Foley rounded the corner and pounded down the corridor toward the lift tubes beyond. The battle platform shook as if palsied, and Foley heard the sound of muted thunder, as a new voice came over the PA system. It was male this time. “This is Lieutenant Simmons . . . All hands prepare to abandon ship. I repeat, all hands . . .”

  Foley swore as he skidded to a halt in front of the tubes. It had been his intention to leave the ship before the rest of the crew were ordered to do so. Because there were only so many escape pods, lifeboats, and other small craft for people to use. That meant the competition for fl?yable vessels was about to become a lot more intense. Something that could already be seen in the crowd gathered in front of the large personnel lifts.

  By that time Tappas knew that unlike the marine captain, Lieutenant JG Foley was never going to shout something like, “Follow me!” That made it necessary to keep a close eye on the slippery offi?cer or risk losing track of him. And sure enough, without so much as a “by-your-leave,” Tappas saw Foley break away from the steadily swelling mob and start to run. “This way!” Tappas shouted, as he waved the brig rats and the marines forward.

  But others heard the order as well, and being desperate for leadership, were quick to follow. So that by the time Foley arrived in front of the lift tubes normally reserved for freight, more than a hundred people were trailing along behind him. The offi?cer swore as they fl?ooded onto the enormous platform, and repeatedly stabbed the down button, as valuable seconds ticked away. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the platform began to descend. Three long minutes passed before the gates opened, and the mob fl?ooded out onto the walkway that circled the vast hangar deck. Plastisteel windows kept the vacuum out but permitted the crowd to look out at the vessels parked on the blast-scarred deck. Even as they watched, a navy launch rose on its repellers, turned toward one of two huge openings, and accelerated away.

  “We’re going to need something big,” Tappas said, as he shouted into Foley’s ear. And the offi?cer realized that the sailor was correct. And, while there weren’t many vessels that qualifi?ed as “big,” the offi?cer saw one that did. A freighter, which judging from the activity around it, would soon depart. The problem was that the ship was of Hudathan rather than human design. And while the big aliens were allies, they were more than a little insular, and somewhat unpredictable. Would the alien crew allow humans to board their ship? Especially a mob of humans? There was only one way to fi?nd out. Foley took off, with Tappas hot on his trail. The rest followed. Their feet made a thundering sound as the group followed the curving walkway past a number of locks to the one where two armed Hudathans stood guard as a train of heavily laden carts passed between them. Were the aliens loading something that already belonged to them? Or stealing what they could? There was no way to know, and Foley didn’t care as he came to a stop in front of a hulking guard. Both Hudathans raised their weapons and aimed them at the mob. At least half the humans responded in kind. A fact that provided Foley with some welcome leverage.

  “Hi there,” Foley began. “We need transportation to the surface. . . . You can invite us aboard, or we’ll shoot you and commandeer the ship. Which would you prefer?”

  There was a pause while one of the aliens spoke into a lip mike. And another pause as he listened to a response. Then, having been ordered to do so, he lowered his weapon. His voice sounded like a rock crusher in low gear. “You can board—but do so quickly.”

  Foley was the fi?rst one through the hatch, and the mob surged in behind him. A short fl?exible tunnel led between a pair of pressure doors and into a well-lit hold. A series of loud clangs was heard as muscular Hudathans wrestled the cargo modules off the carts and secured them to D-rings set into the deck. A Klaxon began to bleat as the last humans managed to squeeze themselves into the hold, and massive pressure doors slammed closed behind them. With no warning whatsoever, the alien ship lifted free of the deck, turned on its axis, and began to accelerate. Foley, who was being crushed from all sides, closed his eyes. The naval offi?cer had a good imagination, which meant he could visualize the scene outside the battle station, where the Ramanthians would be lying in wait. And sure enough, as the boxy freighter shot out through one of two enormous hatches and entered space, the bugs opened fi?re on her. The Hudathan vessel’s screens fl?ared, and the ship shook like a thing possessed, as the captain took evasive action. But rather than be thrown around as they could have been, the refugees were so tightly packed, that they held each other in place.

  What happened next was wonderful and horrible at the same time. Wonderful, in that the fugitives were spared, but horrible because thousands of people were killed when Battle Station III exploded. Later, after there
was time to refl?ect, some would maintain that the devastating explosion had been triggered by members of the space station’s crew, who, having defeated all of the reactor’s safeties, had intentionally pushed the device into overload. The action destroyed both the platform and the Ramanthian troopships that were alongside it.

  Others took the position that such theories amounted to wishful thinking and amounted to jingoistic nonsense. The truth, they claimed, was that Battle Station III, like IV, had been destroyed by the enemy. This meant the loss of their troopships was the result of poor judgment rather than a suicidal act of heroism. One thing was clear, however, and that was the fact that the fl?eeing freighter had been able to escape during the aftermath of the blast, saving more than a hundred lives. That meant Foley could open his eyes, give thanks for the fact that he was still alive, and ask himself a very important question. Given the fact that the Ramanthians seemed in- tent on occupying Earth—how could an entrepreneur like him profi?t from such a horrible calamity?

  NAPA VALLEY, PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  It was dark in the western hemisphere, so when Battle Station III exploded, it was like the birth of a small sun. Light strobed the surface of the planet below, which caused people such as Margaret Vanderveen to look upwards and gasp in surprise. Because even the most pessimistic of news commentators had been telling the citizens of Earth to expect a battle that would last weeks, if not months, ending in a draw if not an outright victory for the Confederacy’s navy. That was why many people were still in a state of denial even as the Ramanthians destroyed the last ships sent up to oppose them.