Chapter Three
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.
—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 officer 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 byproduct of nickel and that there were two ways to extract the element from the planet’s crust. The first 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-profile 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 officer 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 officer waited for a full five 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 officer 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 officer 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 find,” Six replied coldly.
The junior officer 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 fight 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 fighters followed their commanding officer 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 first 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 fingers 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 officer 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 officer 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 fired 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 fired again. The bug jerked spastically, fell over sideways, and began to leak green digestive goo onto the floor.
“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 officer demanded brusquely.
“Twenty-six,” the woman replied crisply. She had brown skin, flashing black eyes, and a full figure. The officer 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 gunfire interrupted the officer’s thoughts as the second platoon dealt with the Ramanthians in the processing plant. “Please! Stop the fighting!” 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 find.”
“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 muffled 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 find 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 inflicted 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 twenty-six 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 file leader who authored it.
The numbers “666” held no particular meaning for Okoto, but the officer was a student of human warfare, and widely read. Which is why he went looking for a certain file, 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 fish who inhabit it.”
The text had been authored by a man named Mao Tse-Tung. 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 floor-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 officer 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 sufficient. Thanks for all the hard work.”
The tech didn’t receive many “thank-yous,” especially from senior officers, 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 first. Alpha Clone Antonio-Seven has agreed to a military alliance with the Confederacy. Beginning with a joint task force to liberate Gamma-014.”
Vanderveen joined the rest of the staff in a loud cheer. But Booly, who harbored serious misgivings about the new alliance, was noticeably silent. “And the bad news?” the officer inquired cynically, as the noise died away. “How bad is bad?”
It was the moment that Nankool had been dreading. There was nothing he could do but tell the truth. “Given that Gamma-014 is one of their planets, and that roughly sixty percent of the joint task force will consist of clone troops, the Hegemony wants to put one of their generals in overall command.”
Booly looked down at the floor as if to momentarily hide his expression before bringing his eyes back up. Everyone in the room knew that the joint chiefs opposed such an arrangement, and for some very good reasons. Although the Hegemony’s soldiers were good, the Seebos had little if any experience where joint operations were concerned. That, combined with a general air of superiority, and the very real possibility that clone officers would show favoritism toward their own kind, meant things could and probably would go wrong—the kinds of things that could cause a whole lot of casualties for the Confederacy. So, even though Booly’s voice was neutral, there was no question as to how the general felt. “And your position, Mr. President?”
Booly had been loyal to Nankool, very loyal, and was a bona fide war hero to boot. Not to mention the fact that his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, was the billionaire president of the star-spanning company that her uncle Sergi Chien-Chu had founded, and was therefore quite influential. So the politician wanted to make the general happy. But the alliance was important, critically important, even if the price was high. So there was nothing Nankool could do but look Booly in the eye and say what he believed. “I wish it were otherwise, General, but we need this alliance, and I believe we should agree to it. I promise you that after we take Gamma-014, the joint chiefs will be in control of the campaigns that follow.”
A lump had formed in the back of Booly’s throat, but he managed to swallow it. The president’s mind was made up, that was clear, and given the extent of his wartime powers, Nankool had the authority to create such alliances when necessary. The Senate would have to ratify the agreement, but that would take months, and chances were that the battle for Gamma-014 would be over by the time they got around to it. For better or for worse. “Sir, yes sir,” Booly said dutifully. “Has a general been chosen?”
Vanderveen saw Nankool’s expression brighten as it became clear that Booly wasn’t going to challenge his authority. “Why, yes,” the politician answered cheerfully. “The officer the Hegemony put forward is General Seebo-785,453. Do you know him?”
Booly winced, and the staff officers seated around him were heard to groan. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Nankool responded grimly. “And I’m sorry you don’t approve. But that’s how it is—so we’ll have to make do. Besides, once you and your staff put your minds to it, I’m sure you’ll find ways to manage him the same way that you manage me!”
That got a laugh from the civilian staff, but Vanderveen could tell that the officers were disappointed, and felt sorry for them. Because now that she knew a soldier the way she knew Santana, the diplomat had a much deeper appreciation of the way in which the military was often squeezed between the vagaries of political necessity, and the realities of war.
With the alliance in place and the question of command having been settled, it was time to address logistics. The Confederacy was already hard-pressed, and the need to dedicate scarce resources to Gamma-014 meant military assets would have to be withdrawn from some other location. But which one? Each possibility entailed risk.
Eventually, all of the arguments and counterarguments began to blur, and Vanderveen’s attention wandered. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the window at the far end of the conference room and the cityscape beyond. That was when the diplomat noticed the people on the roof across the street. And as she watched, they muscled a long cylindrical object up onto the waist-high wall in front of them. Then, having secured both sides of whatever the object was to the building, they pushed it over the side. As the roll of plastic fell free, a blue banner was revealed. The white letters were at least six feet high, and spelled out the words “FREEDOM NOW!”
Given its location, there was no doubt about whom the protesters were trying to communicate with, and since no one else seemed to be paying any attention to the sign, Vanderveen raised a hand. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” the diplomat said. “But it appears as though someone is trying to send you a message.”
The entire group followed Vanderveen’s pointing finger over to the opposite building and not a moment too soon. Clone security agents were already on the roof by that point. It took less than five minutes for the secret police to arrest the protesters, pull the banner back up, and disappear from sight. All of which was both interesting and disturbing. Because as the Confederacy sought to prop the Hegemony up— there was the very real possibility that it had already started to crumble.
* * *
PLANET ADOBE, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS
The Legion’s base on Adobe had been constructed after the first Hudathan war, and was laid out in concentric circles, with the spaceport, which was designated A-1, located at the very center of the sprawling facility. Santana was supposed to meet General Kobbi on C-2, Sector 3, which was dedicated to supply, a simple word that embraced everything from mess kits to the state-of-the-art NAVCOMPS that naval vessels required to find their way through hyperspace. Rather than hike all the way in from F-3, where the 1st REC was quartered, or try to requisition a vehicle, Santana had chosen to ride Sergeant Omi Deker instead. It was a very good decision since the T-2 knew his way around the base.
So as the cyborg jogged along one of the main roads that radiated out from A-1, the helmeted officer was free to look around. It was not only hellishly hot, but eternally dusty, despite the water the big tanker trucks laid down four times a day. Inflatable habs lined the streets. They looked like half cylinders laid on their sides, and in spite of the fact that they weren’t intended for permanent use, some of them had been there for ten or even fifteen years.
And, if there were plenty of things to see, there were plenty of things to hear as well. As the two legionnaires passed through territory that belonged to a variety of different commands, they were exposed to a cacophony of sound as power wrenches chattered, servos whined, engines rumbled, and a series of sonic booms rolled across the land. Discordant and chaotic though the base seemed to be, Santana could feel the underlying sense of purpose that bound everything together. Because even the lowliest private knew that one of the Hegemony’s planets had been taken by the Ramanthians, and that the clones had agreed to an alliance, which meant many of them would wind up as part of the task force being assembled to take Gamma-014 back.
The announcement received mixed reviews in the O club, because, in spite of the fact that most officers understood the importance of the alliance, many of them had doubts about the Hegemony’s military prowess. Except for Santana, that is, who had been sent to one of the clone worlds immediately after graduating from the academy, and fought side by side with the Seebos on LaNor years later. The cavalry officer’s train of thought was interrupted as Deker took a right onto C-2. “We’re almost there,” the noncom announced over the intercom. “That’s the hab up ahead.”
The Supply Command structure wasn’t much to look at, and was far too small to house much more than a few desks, but a quick check confirmed that they were in the right place. Once the T-2 came to a halt, Santana removed his helmet, left it on a hook intended for that purpose, and jumped to the ground. A cloud of fine red dust billowed up around his boots as he pulled a garrison-style cloth “piss cutter” onto his head in lieu of the bulky blue kepi Legion officers normally wore. “Take a break, Sergeant. I’ll contact you via my pocket com when it’s time to leave.”
“Roger that, sir,” the T-2 replied. Deker had friends everywhere—and Supply was no exception. And maybe, just maybe, the cyborg could beg, borrow, or steal a pair of knee couplers. Because even though it was against regs to hoard parts, some items were harder to get than others, and couplers were in short supply. And Deker had no intention of trying to fight the Ramanthians with one or both of his knees locked in place.
Once inside the hab, Santana discovered that the interior was not only blessedly cool, but reasonably free of dust, which was something of a miracle. A corporal showed the cavalry officer into an office where both General Kobbi and a middle-aged colonel were seated. The supply officer had bushy eyebrows, flinty eyes, and a horizontal slash for a mouth. Kobbi made the introductions as the staff officer stood. “Colonel Hamby, this is Captain Santana. He was one of my platoon leaders on Savas.”
Everyone knew about the raid on Savas, and Hamby’s respect for the tall, dark-haired officer went up a notch at the mere mention of it. “Glad to meet you, Captain,” the supply officer said gruffly as the two men shook hands. “Welcome to Regimental SupCom.”
Santana said, “Thank you, sir,” and waited to hear why he had been summoned.
But no explanation was forthcoming as Kobbi stood, and said, “Come on. There’s something we want to show you.”
So Santana had little choice but to follow the other officers down a short hallway to a bank of elevators. Suddenly the cavalry officer understood why the surface hab was so small. The supplies were underground, an arrangement that reminded the officer of Oron IV, as the elevator lowered them down into the interconnected caverns that lay below the C-Ring. When the platform came to a stop, and the door slid open, they entered the subterranean equivalent of a gigantic warehouse. Or that portion of the ring-shaped underground storage facility assigned to the Legion—since both the navy and Marine Corps controlled portions of the facility as well. Lights marked off regular intervals above them, a small army of specially equipped androids whirred about, and the air temperature verged on frigid.
An electric-powered cart was waiting for them. Hamby slipped behind the controls, and Kobbi sat in the passenger seat, which left Santana to jump in the back. He braced himself and hung on as the supply officer put his foot to the floor. The vehicle whirred loudly as it carried them past twenty-foot-tall storage racks, into a maze of neatly stacked cargo modules, and past a battalion of shrink-wrapped T-2 war forms.
Finally, just as Santana was beginning to wonder when the journey would end, Hamby turned into a side corridor and came to an abrupt stop. The senior officers got out, so Santana did likewise, and followed them over to a line of tables. What looked like a full kit had been laid out, starting with uniforms, boots, and body armor, followed by night-vision equipment, weapons, com gear, and much, much more. In short, everything that a bio bod would require for combat.
But Santana was mystified. After all, why would a general and a colonel bring him all the way down into an underground storage facility, just to look at gear that he and every other legionnaire were already familiar with? Kobbi nodded as if able to read the younger officer’s mind. “So, Captain,” he said. “Knowing full well that we are about to take a little trip to Gamma-014, and having done your homework, what’s wrong with this picture?”
Both of the senior officers watched expectantly as Santana ran a critical eye over the kit. That was when the cavalry officer remembered what he had read about the Hegemony planet and put one and one together. “It’s going to be winter when we land,” Santana said. “And the uniforms on the table were designed for desert use.”
“Bingo,” Hamby said grimly. “And, because LEGCOM informs me that we won’t be able to get any winter gear until after the campaign begins, I’d say that the 1st REC is going to freeze its collective ass off.”
“As if we don’t have enough problems,” Kobbi put in gloomily.
“Now,” the supply officer said, as he motioned for the other two to follow him. “Take a look at this!”
Santana arrived at the very last table to find that a complete set of cold-weather camos had been laid out on the table, including thermal underwear, heated socks, insulated vests, wind-and snow-resistant outerwear, and heavy-duty boots. All of which were identical to what the Legion would issue to its bio bods except for one important detail: Rather than the white-gray camo pattern that the Legion preferred, the uniforms spread out in front of the cavalry officer were white and black, which was the iteration the navy issued to its personnel when they were forced to work on wintry planets like Algeron. Just one of the ways in which the various branches sought to preserve their precious identities. But what, if anything, did that have to do with Santana? He was mystified. “That’s some nice-looking gear, sir. Naval issue if I’m not mistaken.”
“No, you’re correct,” Hamby responded evenly. “Ironically, given our situation, the navy storage facility on the far side of the C-Ring has tons of that stuff. More than they will be able to use during the next five years.”
“But they don’t want to give it to us,” Kobbi said disgustedly. “Because an unforeseen emergency could arise—and a certain admiral wants to cover his ass.”
By that time the true purpose of the meeting was starting to become apparent. Having attempted to obtain the cold-weather gear through official channels, and having been refused—Kobbi and the regimental supply officer were contemplating a so-called midnight requisition. And, rather than order Santana to steal the supplies, which would be illegal, they were informing him of the need in hopes that he would take it upon himself to effect the necessary “transfer.”
The unofficial assignment was a compliment of sorts, since it implied a great deal of trust on Kobbi’s part, but it was also unfair. Since the Legion could court-martial Santana if he was caught—while the more senior officers would probably go free. He could say “no,” of course, by simply ignoring the entire conversation, which was clearly the smart thing to do. Even if that meant losing Kobbi’s sponsorship.
But that would mean that the 1st REC’s bio bods would hit the dirt on Gamma-014 dressed for a summer stroll just as the temperature started to drop and snow fell out of the sky. The result would be unnecessary casualties. Which was why Santana was going to do the wrong thing for what he believed to be the right reasons. Kobbi detected the slight hardening of the cavalry officer’s features and knew he had the right man. “That’s unfortunate, sir,” Santana said evenly. “Thank you for the briefing. Is there anything else?”
Hamby looked over to Kobbi, saw the general shake his head, and looked back again. “No, Captain. There isn’t. Come on. I have a bottle of Scotch stashed in my desk—and there’s no reason to save it.”
The Legion had strict rules about who could legitimately have sex with whom, but there was always someone who chose to violate such regulations, even though the penalties could be quite severe. One such individual was Staff Sergeant Lin Schira who, having successfully seduced one of the clerks that reported to him, enjoyed having sex with her in the storage room adjacent to the office they shared with three other people. A rather mechanical process in which the lance corporal was required to drop her pants, bend over, and hang on to a storage rack while Schira took her from behind.
And, because the sergeant liked to have sex just prior to lunch, everyone knew better than to enter the storage room at 1130 hours. Everyone except Company Sergeant Dice Dietrich that is, who had been aware of the daily assignation for some time, but had chosen to mind his own business.
But that was then, and this was now, as the rangy noncom entered the BatSup office, ordered all of the enlisted people to “take ten,” and made his way over to the door labeled “Storeroom.” Plastic buckled as Dietrich kicked the door in and a girlish scream was heard as the hard-eyed noncom entered with camera in hand. Schira swore as the flash strobed, and there was a good deal of scuffling as the lovers hurried to pull their pants up. “Yeah, yeah,” Dietrich said heartlessly. “Life sucks. But that’s how God wants it! Now, assuming you would like to own this camera, there are some things you’ll need to do for me. Or, I can send this puppy up to the general, who will pull your stripes and send you to a billet even worse than Adobe. So, what’ll it be? The choice is yours.”
Even though Navy Master Chief Yas Ruha could have spent the entire watch sitting on his can, while the twenty-one bio bods and robots under his command did all the work, he liked to pilot the bright yellow CH-60 loaders and took pride in his ability to do so. That was why the lifer was strapped into one of the fifteen-foot-tall exoskeletons, busy plucking cargo modules off the “three” shelf, when a “train” load of cargo modules arrived at the bottom of the four-lane access ramp. Which, in keeping with standing orders, his subordinates were quick to report.
Having placed the last module onto an outgoing power pallet, Ruha guided the huge walker over to the vast in-processing area, where newly arrived supplies were routinely scanned into the tracking system, prior to being stored on the appropriate racks. Two neatly uniformed navy supply techs were waiting to greet the master chief as he put the CH-60 on standby and hit his harness release. Rather than use the built-in steps the way some newbie would, Ruha dropped onto an actuator, and wrapped his arms around a steel leg. Then, with a confidence that stemmed from years of practice, he slid to the floor. “Good afternoon,” the diminutive master chief said as he crossed the pavement to where the other two men were waiting. “So what can you do for me?”
The joke was sufficient to elicit a chuckle from both the dark-haired chief petty officer and the hollow-cheeked first-class who stood at his side. “A whole shitload of space armor just came off the Epsilon Indi,” Santana answered genially. And it’s supposed to go aboard the Cygnus pronto. Unfortunately the Cygy isn’t going to drop hyper until o-dark-thirty. So we need a place to stash the stuff until tomorrow, when we can boost it back up. All the tracking data should be in-system.”
“ ‘Should be,’ and ‘is,’ are two different things,” Ruha said cynically. “So it never hurts to check.” So saying, the master chief drew a pistol-shaped scanner from the holster on his right thigh and made his way past the tractor. As soon as he was level with the first cargo module, the noncom ran the scanner over the bar code plastered across the side of the box and eyeballed the tiny screen.
Santana held his breath. Sergeant Schira swore that while it was almost impossible to remove supplies from the system without triggering lots of alarms, it was relatively easy to add items, since thieves would have no motive to do so. That was the theory anyway—but would it work? Or would the little master chief realize something was wrong and call the shore patrol? Because if that occurred, it would soon become apparent that Dietrich and he were imposters.
But, based on the way Ruha was acting, it looked like Schira’s theory was correct. Because the petty officer was walking along next to the train, and each time he scanned a bar code, the noncom would nod as if satisfied with what he saw. Had the master chief been paying attention to anything other than the numbers on his scanner, he might have noticed that all of the cargo modules had been freshly painted and equipped with the type of Legion-style grab bars that would enable T-2s to move them around.
Thankfully, Ruha wasn’t attuned to such matters, so once the cargo was checked in, all the imposters had to do was get a receipt, and turn some very small robots loose on their way out. Once on the surface it was a simple matter to abandon the stolen tractor, enter a waiting quad, and wait for the hatch to close before changing back into their Legion uniforms. Then, having sought fold-down seats in the otherwise empty cargo compartment, it was time to fish a cold beer out of a cooler and start to worry. Phase one of the plan was complete—but what about phase two? The quad began to pitch and sway as it made its way through busy streets—and the day wore on.
There was no light within the cargo module, but that didn’t bother Sergeant Omi Deker, thanks to the fact that the cyborg could chat with Sergeant Amy Matos, Corporal Stacy Subee, and Private Ka Nhan on a low-power squad-level push that the swabbies weren’t likely to monitor. And, even if they did, all the mop swingers would hear was some legionnaires telling war stories.
Having been in the module for more than eight hours, it was time for Deker to activate his work light, open the specially rigged latches, and emerge from hiding, an activity that would go undetected assuming Captain Santana and Top Dietrich had successfully deployed the pinhead-sized robots. The robots were programmable machines that the Legion’s special ops people used to neutralize video surveillance during raids. A servo whined as Deker pushed the cargo module’s lid upwards and peered out through the resulting gap. The cavern was lit around the clock, but largely inactive between midnight and 0400, which was why 0130 had been chosen as the best time to strike.
Confident that it was reasonably safe to exit the cargo module, Deker gave the rest of the team permission to go before pushing the lid up out of the way and crawling out of the box. It would have been impossible, not to mention impractical, to hide T-2s in the cargo module. That was why the cyborgs had chosen to wear the small, very agile “bodies” known as spider forms instead. The electromechanical bodies were quick and strong, which made them ideal for the mission the cyborgs had volunteered for.
Meanwhile, as the legionnaires spidered out onto the floor, the cameras mounted on the massive support columns went off-line. That produced a low-level technical alert that went into the maintenance queue and would be dealt with later that morning.
That left the cyborgs free to work which, thanks to an elaborate run-through two days earlier, they were able to do with a minimum of communication. Even though the big CH-60 loaders were designed for the convenience of bio bods, the spider forms were very adaptable, and it wasn’t long before Deker and Matos were busy plucking cargo modules off shelves like shoppers in a supermarket. Then, once a sufficient amount of space had been cleared, it was time to reverse the process by replacing the stolen containers with the units Santana and Dietrich had brought down from the surface the day before. While all of that was going on, Subee and Nhan were kept busy replacing the bar codes on newly delivered units with copies of those on the containers that they planned to steal. That strategy should keep Master Chief Ruha happy until someone opened one of the modules only to discover it was half-filled with sand—the one thing that everyone on Adobe already had lots of.
The whole process took about an hour, and once the switch was complete, it was time for the cyborgs to hide in the same modules they had arrived in. Time passed slowly after that, very slowly, but uneventfully as well. So that, when Santana and Dietrich arrived at 0730, they were allowed to pull the entire trainload of cargo modules up onto Adobe’s surface, where they were soon lost in traffic.
Later that night, in the 1st REC’s maintenance facility, the cargo modules were painted olive drab, retagged, and stored with the rest of the equipment that would soon accompany the regiment into space. When Santana was finally able to return to his quarters, it was to find a sealed envelope resting on his pillow. The handwritten note inside read: “To Captain Antonio Santana. Thank you for a job well-done. Warmest regards, General Mortimer Kobbi.”