When Duty Calls lotd-8

by William C. Dietz

  “Okay, Thomas,” Margaret said. “You win. We’ll take the next turnoff.”

  Lisa Qwan, and the robot named John, were in the backseat. Both were familiar with the ongoing debate, and neither chose to intervene. All of the humans agreed it would be necessary to abandon the truck and trailer at some point, but the question had always been “when?” Margaret favored staying on the road as long as possible, because she felt they could make better progress on the road, even at a slow crawl. Benson understood that point of view but felt highway travel was too dangerous. Especially given attacks from the air. That perspective was reinforced by the sight of the stillsmoldering vehicles that a group of volunteers was pushing off the road. There would be no burial for the blackened bodies that remained inside of them. Just the slow-motion decay Mother Nature provided to all of her creations. It took the better part of an hour for the mob of cars and trucks to get under way again, but once they did, Margaret and her party were on the lookout for a turnoff. Any turnoff, so they could get off by themselves and unload their supplies without attracting the wrong sort of attention. Because while only a minority of the refugees were thieves, they were a dangerous minority, and would happily prey on anyone they could. The opportunity to part company with the metal river came an hour later, as a dirt road appeared on the right, and Margaret put the wheel over. “Here we go,” she said. “For better or for worse.”

  “Let’s stop after half a mile or so,” Benson suggested.

  “And put on a show of force. The truck, trailer, and contents are so valuable that there’s a high probability someone will try to follow us.”

  Margaret knew it was true and felt a knot form in her stomach as the truck continued to rattle along. There were evergreens on both sides of the road, which judging from their height, had been planted fi?fteen years earlier. “Okay,”

  Benson said, as the truck-trailer combination came to a halt.

  “Everybody grab a gun, and make sure it’s loaded. You know the kind of people we’re dealing with. So if it comes to that, show no mercy. They won’t. Agreed?”

  Unlike some military androids, John’s programming included specifi?c prohibitions against the taking of human lives, so that left only three of them to face down whoever chose to pursue them, and that was downright scary. There was reason to worry, because even as the cloud of dust generated by the truck-trailer combination began to blow away, another one appeared behind them.

  “Here they come,” Benson said grimly, as he pumped a shell into the shotgun’s chamber. “Remember, if I fi?re, you fi?re, and don’t stop until they’re dead.”

  What the burly maintenance man didn’t say was what the rest of the party should do if he were killed? But maybe that was obvious. They could fi?ght, or they could die. Because Benson had no intention of making his way down the middle of the road so the oncoming thieves could simply run him over, he walked next to it instead. So when the dusty yellow cab came to a stop, and two men got out of it, Benson addressed them from behind a thin screen of trees.

  “Get back in the car,” Benson ordered in a loud, clear voice.

  “And do it now.”

  Both men carried hunting rifl?es and turned toward the sound. One of them had a narrow face, hollow cheeks, and a two-day growth of black stubble. He was dressed in an olive drab T-shirt and fi?lthy jeans. He smiled engagingly. “Hey, take it easy, pops. . . . It ain’t like that. Larry and I saw you turn off and fi?gured you could use some help. Especially with two women and all.”

  “Thanks,” Benson said, grimly. “But no thanks. Now get in the car and turn it around.”

  “Or what?” Larry demanded belligerently. He was wearing a blue bandana on his head, had a sheath knife dangling from the lanyard he wore around his neck, and sported knee-length shorts worn over a pair of scuffed combat boots. Larry was holding a rifl?e with his left hand, but as his right hand began to drift toward the pistol located at the small of his back, a shot rang out. The .300 Magnum bullet struck Larry between the shoulder blades, blew a hole through his bony chest, and hit a tree to Benson’s right. As the dead body continued to fall forward, the fi?rst man attempted to bring his weapon up and took half a load of double-ought buck from Benson. He dropped to his knees and appeared to be praying when the maintenance man shot him again. Blood sprayed the dirt and immediately began to dry.

  Margaret stepped out onto the other side of the road at that point, still carrying a scope-mounted rifl?e. She looked pale, and Benson understood why. “You did a good job, ma’am,” the maintenance man said gruffl?y, as he stepped over one of the bodies. “The only problem being that you were fi?ring in my direction. But all’s well that ends well.”

  Margaret didn’t answer. She threw up instead. Qwan led her employer off to get cleaned up, while John stripped both dead men of potentially useful items, and Benson fi?red up a chain saw. It made quick work of two trees and it wasn’t long before both were lying across the road. Not an impossible barrier by any means, but one calculated to slow pursuers down, and buy the group some additional time. Strangely enough, it was Margaret’s idea to drag the bodies over and prop them up against the fallen trees. A clear message if there ever was one!

  Then, encouraged by the fact that there hadn’t been further signs of pursuit, Margaret and her companions reentered the truck and continued on their way. Having pored over all of their maps, the socialite had identifi?ed a hiking trail that cut across the road roughly two miles ahead. If they followed it toward the northeast, they would eventually connect with a second trail, which would take them to a point only a few miles from their ultimate destination. And sure enough, it wasn’t long before they saw the trail sign they were looking for, and Benson braked to a stop.

  “Okay,” Benson said, as they prepared to get out. “The horses won’t be able to carry all the stuff we have—so let’s sort everything into two piles. The ‘gotta have it to stay alive pile’—and the ‘it would be nice to have pile.’ We’ll load the most important stuff fi?rst and add more if we have room. Any objections?”

  There weren’t any objections, so they piled out, and work began. By unspoken agreement, it was Margaret’s job to coax the horses out of the twenty-eight-foot trailer, check the animals over, and prepare them for the trail, an activity that was likely to come as a shock to the pampered beasts since they were intended for riding and had never been used as pack animals.

  The most spirited, and skittish, horse was the Arabian that belonged to Margaret’s daughter Christine. As the society matron worked to put one of Benson’s makeshift pack saddles on the mare, she took comfort from the fact that her daughter was with President Nankool and therefore safe from harm.

  Meanwhile the other three sorted through everything they had, remembering that each horse would only be able to carry about one hundred thirty pounds of gear. That, plus the additional three hundred pounds of tools and supplies the humans and John could carry, added up to slightly over eight hundred pounds of freight.

  So there were tough choices to make, and some arguments as a result, but there was general agreement where weapons, ammo, and medical supplies were concerned. The same was true of nonperishable food, although Qwan was forced to give up some of the canned items she was fond of, and the suitcase full of beauty products that Margaret wanted to take was voted down. Benson, by contrast, was allowed to keep almost all of his carefully selected hand tools and hardware, plus a quantity of liquor, for what he called “medicinal purposes.” The rest of the carefully packed loads consisted of tents, tarps, and kitchen equipment. Clothes were limited to three outfi?ts each. Except for John—who could go without if necessary.

  It was evening by the time everything was ready, and rather than tackle the trail in the dark, the decision was made to stay where they were until morning. So a fi?re was built, and the humans gorged themselves on canned food, while John stood sentry duty. Something the android could do all night without experiencing fatigue.

  Margaret thought it would be di
ffi?cult to sleep that night, but she surprised herself by dozing off almost immediately, in spite of the fact that she had killed a man earlier that day. And when she awoke, it was to the smell of canned hash frying over the fi?re, and coffee perking in a fi?re-blackened pot.

  Margaret discovered that she was sore from sleeping on a thin backpacking mat, but otherwise fi?ne, as she set about caring for the horses. It was an endless task even under the best of circumstances, but was made even more demanding by the need to load and unload the Arabians every day, plus fi?nd something for the animals to graze on. As the three of them sat down to eat, Benson suggested they destroy the items they couldn’t take with them. But Margaret refused. “People are desperate,” she said soberly. “Who knows? The extra supplies could save a few lives. Let’s put them in the back of the truck and leave it unlocked. We’re all in this together.”

  Benson knew that the supplies could just as easily fall into the hands of people who didn’t deserve any charity, but chose not to say anything. So everything they couldn’t carry went into the truck. And an hour later they were gone. More exposed in some ways, but safer in others, as the forest closed around them.

  The succeeding days were hard, even harder than Margaret had expected. For even though she was in better shape than many her age, Margaret was sixty-one years old and used to a life of privilege. And it was hard work leading an often-recalcitrant horse all day, carrying a pack, and battling rugged terrain. But Margaret became tougher with each passing hour as her body grew stronger.

  There were worse things than the rigors of the trail, however. Like the day when a loud thrumming noise was heard, and a Ramanthian shuttle passed directly above them before they could hide, but, inexplicably, continued on its way. And there were three encounters with other groups of refugees, one of which involved a party of twelve heavily armed men who could have easily taken everything they had. Fortunately, all of them were would-be resistance fi?ghters, on their way to join forces with a group called the Earth Liberation Brigade, which was determined to throw the bugs off the planet.

  But the moments all of them dreaded most were when the trail passed remote homes, a large number of which were clearly occupied, or crossed highways, which was even worse. On one occasion it had been necessary to wait until nine in the evening for a seemingly endless Ramanthian convoy to pass. Then, like ghosts in the night, the foursome led their pack animals across the pavement and into the woods on the other side.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the group came up over the saddle between two hills and were able to look down into Deer Valley. Something they did with great care, having learned how important stealth could be over the last week or so. John took charge of the horses while the rest of them elbowed their way forward to look down from the cover of some sun-warmed rocks.

  There had been a gold mine on the property hundreds of years earlier. After that played out, the valley had been used as a cattle ranch, a private estate, a bed-and-breakfast, a religious retreat, and a hunting preserve, before turning into a private estate once again when Charles and Margaret Vanderveen purchased it twenty-one years earlier. At that point the spread included a sprawling two-story ranch house, a guest cottage, an elevated water tank, an old barn, and the new stable Margaret had commissioned two years before. But as Margaret looked down into the valley, she saw little more than fi?re-blackened rubble where the house and barn had once stood. There was no way to know how the fi?re had been started or by whom. The obvious suspects were Ramanthians and/or looters. It was a terrible blow, especially after working so hard to get there, and Margaret felt a rising sense of despair as Qwan put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Margaret,” Benson said, as he eyed the valley through a pair of binoculars.

  “It looks like the place was looted. Wait a minute. . . . What have we got here? Kids, that’s what, a couple dozen of them.”

  Margaret wiped some of the tears away with the back of her hand. “Children? No adults?”

  “Nope,” Benson replied. “Not so far as I can see. Here, take a look.”

  So Margaret accepted the glasses and eyed what remained of the family retreat. There had been a caretaker, of course, but there was no sign of him, which was certainly understandable given the circumstances. From what she could see it appeared that some of the children had made themselves at home in the guest cottage, with the rest living in the stable. The oldest looked like she was fi?fteen or sixteen and the youngest about four or fi?ve. “Come on,” Margaret said, as she backed away. “We need to get down there. . . . Those children need our help.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say something like that,”

  Benson grumbled. But he came nevertheless—and was right beside her when Margaret made her way up a dirt road and onto her property. A ragged-looking teenage girl was positioned on the cottage’s front porch. The youngster pointed a

  .22 rifl?e at Margaret as she and her companions made their way up a gentle slope. The teenager was fl?anked by twin boys and a blond girl with a runny nose. “We don’t have anything worth stealing,” the girl said tightly. “So go away.”

  “My husband and I own this ranch,” Margaret said calmly.

  “Not that such things mean much anymore. . . . But you need to know that my friends and I plan to stay. And we’d be happy to have you and the other children stay, too. This was a self-supporting ranch at one time, and if we work hard enough, it can be again.”

  The teenager was silent for a moment before lowering the rifl?e. Margaret could see what might have been relief in the girl’s eyes. “I’m sorry about your house, ma’am. . . . It was already burned when we got here. My parents are dead, at least I think they are, and that’s the same for all the rest. I started out with the two I was babysitting—and the rest kind of glommed onto us. I couldn’t tell them no.”

  “No, of course not,” Margaret said understandingly. “My name is Margaret Vanderveen, the young lady is Lisa Qwan, the man with the scruffy beard is Thomas Benson, and the android is named John.”

  “My name is Christine,” the girl said. “But the kids call me Chris.”

  Margaret felt a lump form in the back of her throat but managed to swallow it. “That’s a very pretty name. Well, Christine, there’s a lot of work to do, so we might as well get started.”

  As night fell two days later Margaret took a fl?ashlight and made her way up an overgrown trail to the hilltop where she and her husband liked to sip hot chocolate and watch shooting stars fl?ash across the sky. And now, even though she knew that a lot of what orbited the planet was evil, she chose to look beyond that and talk to her husband.

  “We’ve got a lot to do,” Margaret said, as she stared up into the night sky. “The ranch will continue to attract trouble so long as it looks habitable. So we’re moving everything of value into the old mine shaft. Benson says all of the supports are in good shape, and I trust him. Once that work is complete we’ll burn the guest cottage and the stable. We’ll keep everything hidden after that.

  “The children are going to need help, Charles. . . . Lots of help—and lots of food. So that will be the next thing to worry about. But right now I’m just thinking of you. . . . On cold, cold, Algeron, worrying about me. Well, I’m fi?ne, Charles, just fi?ne. And someday, when you can come home again, I’ll be here waiting.”

  There was no reply of course, there couldn’t be, but what might have been a shooting star chose that exact moment to streak across the sky, and Margaret took it as an omen. Darkness would hold sway for a while—but a new dawn would surely come.

  Given that most of our forces are not equipped for arctic conditions, and the fact that there is every reason to believe that the enemy is drawing us into a trap, I recommend that we suspend the push into the mountains until we can equip all of our troops with appropriate clothing and winter conditions abate. It is my considered opinion that the existing strategy will lead to a significant and unnecessary loss of allied forces.

  —An ext
ract from COMFORCES Command Memo2842.417 from General Mortimer Kobbi toGeneral Jonathan Alan Seebo-785,453

  Standard year 2842

  PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY

  Colonel Six, the surviving members of his company, two hostages taken from Marine Firebase 356, and roughly fi?fty heavily laden Ortovs had been hiking all day. And everyone was tired. But, before the clones could eat and crawl into their sleeping bags, Dr. Kira Kelly insisted on screening them. Her offi?ce consisted of an open space next to a roaring fire. It warmed her right side but did nothing for her left, as the snow continued to fall. The big fl?uffy fl?akes hissed as the fi?re consumed them. “Next!” Kelly said, and a brawny Ortov made way for a teenage boy. “How do you feel?” the doctor inquired, as the youngster took his place on her guest rock.

  “Fine,” the clone replied fl?atly. His features were impassive, which was typical of the Ortov line, but the doctor could see the curiosity in his eyes. Chances were that she was the fi?rst off-world free breeder he had ever been allowed to talk to. There was something innocent about the clones—a quality that Kelly found refreshing.

  “So why are you limping?” the doctor wanted to know.

  “I wasn’t,” the teenager countered evasively. Kelly sighed. The Ortovs were tough, and took pride in that, sometimes to their own detriment. “Remove your left boot.”

  The boy did as he was told.

  “Now the sock.” Kelly noticed the careful manner in which the sock was removed and soon saw why. The teenager’s toes were black and swollen. It was a sure sign of gangrene stemming from frostbite. But which kind? The dry type, which she and Hospital Corpsman Sumi might be able to treat without having to amputate, or the wet kind? Also known as gas gangrene, which is caused by a dangerous bacteria, and can follow dry gangrene if left untreated. Kelly cupped the boy’s heel, brought the dirty foot up within inches of her nose, and immediately caught a whiff of the foul-smelling gas associated with wet gangrene. She lowered the foot, got out a roll of gauze, and began to apply it.