When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  It wasn’t too late, however. Victory of a sort was still within reach if only the Queen and her advisors would listen to Ubatha’s ideas. So as the royal disappeared from sight, and her staff passed between the rows of Imperial Guards, the Chancellor knew a different but no less important sort of battle was about to begin.

  The Queen was waiting by the time her staff entered the room prepared for her use. It was square. There was a platform to one side where the monarch was seated on a saddle chair and backed by two bodyguards, a security precaution she objected to but her generals insisted on so long as portions of the planet’s surface remained unsecured. The area directly in front of the royal remained open to accommodate holo projections should any be required. A semicircular table, at which seven of her advisors were invited to sit, had been set up facing her. And, since Chancellor Ubatha was senior to all the rest, he was at the center. The Queen made a brief opening statement thanking those present for a job well done, and lauding, “. . . the brave warriors upon whom all of us rely.” Most of the troops would see the statement within the next day or so. What followed was a long, and to Ubatha’s thinking, overly detailed series of reports about every theater of the war except Earth. Based on reports put forth by various military offi?cers, it seemed that rather than lose the battle for Gamma-014, as everyone expected him to, General Akoto might actually win it. Especially if the navy could intervene at exactly the right moment. All thanks to the massive incompetence of General-453, who in the words of one admiral, was “the best offi?cer the Ramanthian Empire had!” Even the Queen found that concept amusing and signaled her merriment with a fl?urry of clicks.

  There had been some reverses of course. . . . Because even though the Confederacy’s forces were stretched thin, they remained potent, as evidenced by a chance encounter off Imiro VI. Having run into a task force consisting of a Ramanthian cruiser, two destroyers, and three heavily loaded transports, a human destroyer and two destroyer escorts not only engaged the larger force, but won the ensuing battle! A sad day indeed. But such narratives were few and far between as Ubatha’s peers continued to brag about a long list of unalloyed victories.

  Finally, once the glowing reports were over, it was time to discuss Earth. This prompted a long series of reluctantly negative reports. Because even though the empire had a large number of troops on the ground, only 10 percent of the planet’s surface could be classifi?ed as pacifi?ed, and the Queen wanted answers. Half a dozen possible solutions were put forward. All of them called for more ships, more troops, and more supplies. Eventually, having heard from the military, the Queen called upon Ubatha. “You’ve been uncharacteristically silent, Chancellor. Yet you’re rarely short of opinions! What would you have me do?”

  It was the moment Ubatha had been counting on. “You will recall my original advice, Majesty,” the offi?cial intoned carefully. “I felt it would be best to glass Earth and thereby deny the humans their ancestral home.”

  At that point some of the individuals seated to either side of the Chancellor began to squirm uneasily. If Ubatha was preparing to chastise the Queen for failing to follow his advice—then they wanted no part of what would almost certainly be a career-ending moment of self-justifi?cation!

  But Ubatha had risen to high rank for a reason, and while he sincerely believed that a mistake had been made, the bureaucrat wasn’t so foolish as to say that publicly. “But I was mistaken,” the offi?cial admitted humbly. “Because as you pointed out at the time of our discussion, the destruction of Earth could precipitate an attack on Hive, and Earth constitutes a valuable bargaining chip as well.”

  By that time the offi?cers and offi?cials seated to either side of Ubatha were wondering where the Chancellor’s comments were headed. But if the Queen was concerned, there was no sign of it in the position of her antennae or the set of her wings. “But there’s a danger,” Ubatha continued. “If we continue to throw more and more resources at Earth in what may be a futile attempt to pacify the planet, Earth could become our Gamma-014. That is to say, an expensive diversion that saps our strength even as the enemy continues to grow stronger.”

  That was too much for General Ra Ool—who felt honorbound to protest. “Excuse me, Chancellor,” the old warrior said. “But that’s absurd! You heard the reports. With few exceptions, our forces are winning every battle they fi?ght!”

  “Yes,” Ubatha agreed soberly, “that’s true. But what lies ahead? Even if we win the battle for Gamma-014, who’s to say whether such a mutual defeat will weaken the relationship between the Confederacy and Hegemony, or strengthen it?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Ra Ool objected contemptuously. “I really must object—”

  “And you have,” the Queen put in sternly. “But, if Chancellor Ubatha plans to make a fool of himself, why not give him every opportunity to do so?”

  In spite of the royal’s words, Ubatha knew he had almost total control of the room. “But let’s say I’m wrong about Gamma-014,” the bureaucrat continued, with a nod toward the disgruntled General Ra Ool. “Here’s something I know for sure . . . Thraki intelligence agents tell us that an effort is presently under way to recruit and train Confederacy militia units out along the rim. Specifi?cally, three brigades of mostly human troops. And all of them are likely to be twice as tough as the animals encountered here.

  “And if that doesn’t concern you,” Ubatha continued urgently, “then consider this. . . . Having joined the Confederacy, the Hudathans are no longer prohibited from raising an army. And, based on reports from our agents, that’s exactly what the barbarians are doing!”

  The words produced a veritable click-storm of concern, because a number of Ramanthian planets had been badly mauled during the Hudathan wars, making it necessary for the race to briefl?y ally itself with the Confederacy in order to survive. Because the Hudathans had been cut off from all trade for many years, it was widely assumed that years would pass before the aliens would represent a threat again. A period during which the empire could defeat the Confederacy without being forced to deal with the Hudathans at the same time.

  It was important information, intentionally withheld to produce maximum effect, and the Queen couldn’t help but admire the skill with which the strategy had been executed—

  even if Ubatha was guilty of hoarding intelligence that should have been shared the moment it became available. She would chide him for the omission later. But privately—because it was in her interest to keep him strong. “That’s interesting,”

  the royal allowed calmly. “So tell us, Chancellor, how many Hudathans should we expect to face?”

  “There are roughly two billion of them,” Ubatha replied soberly. “And every male under the age of sixty qualifi?es as a potential warrior. Which means that within a year we will face another 750 million soldiers. And not just any soldiers, but Hudathan soldiers, of the sort who have laid waste to our planets before.”

  “So what would you suggest? the Queen demanded. She was beginning to tire of the way in which Ubatha had manipulated the meeting, and he could literally smell her dissatisfaction in the air. “We should try to hold what we have,”

  Ubatha answered succinctly. “For the reasons already given. But under no circumstances should we expend additional resources on Earth—knowing what will face us soon.”

  There was a long period of silence, followed by a sequence of approving clicks from the Queen, and a discharge of pleasurable pheromones. A decision had been made. Like thousands of other small towns in North America, Mill Valley, just north of San Francisco, had come under attack by the Ramanthians. But without any military bases to threaten the aliens, or heavy industries to attract their attention, the community had escaped relatively unscathed until a wave of urban refugees poured across the latest in a succession of four Golden Gate Bridges, and laid waste to everything in their path. And that included Mill Valley’s shopping mall. What had been a beautiful state-of-the-art fi?ve-story building complete with huge skylights, plant-fi?lled atria, and
hundreds of retail sales outlets had been destroyed. Each and every shop had been broken into and looted, tons of shattered glass covered the fl?oors, and bits of worthless merchandise lay everywhere. There were even uglier things, too, including dead bodies, or what was left of them. Because thousands of previously privileged pets had been abandoned in the mad rush to escape the Bay Area and were quickly turning feral, with a tendency to spread bones far and wide. In spite of all the damage that had been done to the mall, and all the theft that had taken place since, one monument to capitalism remained untouched. And that was the low, squatty structure called the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building. Though part of the mall complex, it stood like an island in the middle of a vast wreck-strewn parking lot. The depository wasn’t a bank in the regular sense of the word, because there hadn’t been much need for brick-and-mortar fi?nancial institutions for a long time, but it was a descendant of such buildings. Because the one thing rich people couldn’t do via their personal computers was to store their gold bullion, expensive jewelry, and other valuables anywhere other than within their vulnerable homes. So chains of fortresslike buildings existed to meet that need, most of which contained at least a thousand safety-deposit boxes, which could normally be accessed twenty-four hours a day by anyone having the correct code, retinal pattern, and voiceprint. When the Ramanthians attacked, and looters swept through the community, the computer in charge of the Mill Valley Security Deposit Building had gone to the deep defensive mode. This resulted in a shutdown so complete that not even bona fi?de customers could get in. And that explained why either a looter or a frustrated customer had attempted to drive a beer truck through the front door. That attack, like dozens of others, had been unsuccessful. Even the Ramanthians had taken a crack at the depository without any success. None of that troubled Lieutenant JG Leo Foley, because he and his brig rats were armed with something no other looters had access to. And that was the Mark IV Cutting Torch, which the group had “liberated” from the wreckage of a Confederacy shuttle shortly after being dumped onto the planet’s surface. A truly awesome tool that they, as navy personnel, were very familiar with. Which was how they knew the torch could cut a hole through the depository’s front door and give them access to the riches within!

  Getting inside was only half the battle. Because human society had been reduced to predators and prey, and even though they were armed, plenty of other people were carrying weapons as well. The last thing they wanted to do was attract attention and be forced to fi?ght for what they already regarded as theirs. And that was why the would-be thieves were hiding inside a stolen delivery van, waiting for darkness to fall, when one of the sentries called in. He was crouched on top of the depository’s fl?at roof and his voice had a nasal quality. “Uh-oh. A Ramanthian transport is coming in from the south. . . . It’s traveling low and slow. You’ll see it in a minute or so.”

  Foley swore. There was no telling what the bugs were up to, but one thing was for sure: It would be stupid to leave the protection of the van and tackle the depository just as the chits arrived. “Get down off that roof,” Foley ordered.

  “And take cover. Chances are they’ll keep on going so long as we don’t give them a reason to stop.”

  But the bugs had other plans, which quickly became obvious. “There it is!” Tappas exclaimed, as the sailor peered up through the van’s windshield. “I think the bastards are going to land!” The comment proved prophetic as a loud thrumming noise was heard and a black shadow slid across the parking lot. Jets of bright blue energy stabbed the ground, and metal creaked as the transport settled onto huge skids. Foley was worried by that time. He and his companions couldn’t drive away, not without drawing attention to themselves, but it would be crazy to stay. “The main hatch is opening,” Tappas observed gloomily. “That can’t be good.”

  Foley agreed, as two fi?les of Ramanthian troops shuffl?ed their way down a ramp and onto the debris-strewn asphalt. Rather than heading straight for the van, as Foley feared they would, the aliens came to an abrupt halt. Then, just as Foley was starting to feel hopeful, an offi?cer brandished his sword and ordered the soldiers to form two ranks. The fi?rst of which dropped to one knee. “What the hell are they doing?” Tappas inquired, as he continued to peer out through the windshield.

  Foley was just about to say, “I don’t know,” when a fl?ood of humans poured out of the ship. Some glanced back over their shoulders as if fl?eeing someone. The crowd included men, women, and children. That was when the navy offi?cer felt something cold trickle into the pit of his stomach. Because judging from the way the troops were positioned, they were about to open fi?re!

  “Check your weapons,” Foley said grimly, “and start the engine. Kill the offi?cer with the van. We’ll shoot the rest.”

  “But what about the depository?” one of the men inquired plaintively. “Aren’t we going rob it?”

  “Not today,” Foley said, as he turned to Tappas. “Hit it!”

  There was a loud roar as the engine came to life, followed by a screech as the tires fought for traction, and the vehicle shot forward. The Ramanthian offi?cer was just turning toward the van when the vehicle struck him and threw his body high into the air. It was still falling when Tappas plowed into the troopers beyond and skidded to a stop. Foley hit the door release, and it slid out of the way. “Kill them!”

  the navy offi?cer yelled as his boots hit the ground. “Kill all of them!”

  There were six brig rats in the van, plus two slightly mystifi?ed sentries, all of whom opened fi?re on the Ramanthians. And, having been taken by surprise, a dozen aliens went down before their comrades could return fi?re. But there were at least thirty aliens, so it might have been over then, except that the seemingly helpless civilians weren’t all that helpless. A woman yelled an order, and the civilians charged. Five or six staggered and fell, but the Ramanthians were forced to divide their fi?re, and that made the crucial difference. Two brig rats had been killed by the time all the combatants collided. Sheets of blood fl?ew as one of the alien noncoms made use of his power-assisted armor to rip a man’s arm off. But the same Ramanthian was brought down a few moments later and dispatched with a captured rifl?e. That was when Tappas pointed at the transport. “Look! They’re getting ready to lift!”

  Foley saw that the sailor was correct. Vapor outgassed as the transport’s engines began to spool up. Having seen the Ramanthian troops cut down by a group of animals, the ship’s pilot was pulling out. That was fi?ne with Foley, but one of the civilians took offense. “Oh, no you don’t,” the man said, and ran toward the van.

  Tappas had left the engine running, so all the civilian had to do was put the vehicle in drive and take off. The van bucked wildly as it rolled over three or four dead bodies, swerved to avoid a derelict car, and began to pick up speed. Then it was on course, headed straight for the transport’s ramp, which was in the process of being withdrawn. The vehicle bounced as it hit, but still found enough traction to run up the ramp, and bury itself in the open hatch. It was too big to pass through the rectangular opening. And the driver was trapped inside. But the additional weight caused the ship to wobble, and while the pilot struggled to compensate, one of the civilians tossed a grenade in under the van. It was an act of bravery that cost the woman dearly as the resulting explosion triggered two more, the transport rolled over, and crashed on top of her. There was a loud whump as fl?ames enveloped the ship, and the battle was over. “Damn . . .” Foley said respectfully. “That woman had balls.”

  “Not exactly,” a man with a beard said. “But Marcy is with her husband now. . . . My name’s Utley. Marvin Utley. And you are?”

  A huge paw enveloped Foley’s hand as the civilians began to execute wounded Ramanthians. One of them had taken possession of the offi?cer’s sword. Blood fl?ew as the blade rose and fell. “Lieutenant Foley,” the offi?cer replied automatically. Utley nodded approvingly. “The Legion or the Marine Corps?”

  “Navy.”

  “Well, you and your boys
did one helluva job, Lieutenant. Most of us are members of the resistance,” Utley explained. “The bastards captured the whole bunch of us night before last, sentenced us to death, and brought us here for execution. It’s all part of a calculated effort to intimidate the population. They like to fl?y prisoners to remote locations, kill them, and leave the bodies. It makes for a pretty effective warning. What were you doing here anyway?”

  “I’m glad we were able to help,” Foley replied evasively. And was surprised to discover that he meant it. “We’d better get the hell out of here, though. Because a quick-reaction force may be on the way.”

  “You’re right about that,” Utley said fervently, before turning to yell at the rest of his group. “Take their weapons and follow Lieutenant Foley!” And that was the moment when a new and rather unlikely guerrilla leader was born. Even though all of the traffi?c on the two-lane road was headed east, and vehicles that ran out of gas were routinely pushed off the highway by the motorists behind them, the densely packed mass of vehicles was traveling at no more than one or two miles per hour when the Ramanthian fi?ghters attacked. They came out of the sun, just as they had been trained to do, and swerved back and forth as they followed the serpentine highway west toward the cities from which the people below were trying to escape.

  Vehicles exploded, rear-ended each other, and ran off the road as energy bolts tore them apart. Margaret Vanderveen was driving, and managed to stop the truck without hitting the car in front of her, but could do little more than close her eyes and pray as the alien fi?ghters passed overhead. Then the Ramanthians were gone. It wasn’t the fi?rst time that the slow-moving column had been savaged. Margaret couldn’t remember how many attacks there had been as she opened her eyes to discover that she and her three companions were still alive. Others weren’t so fortunate, however, as could be seen from the fl?ames that enveloped three vehicles farther up the road. Horns were honking, and people were shouting orders at each other, as the cars just ahead of or behind burning wrecks struggled to put a few feet of space between the confl?agration and whatever they were driving. Margaret turned to the maintenance man seated next to her.