Chapter Four
For how can tyrants safe govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?
—William Shakespeare
King Henry VI, Part III
Standard year 1591
ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP REGULUS,
OFF PLANET NOCTOR, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
Like Jericho, Noctor was a so-called nursery planet, except in this case the maturation process was proceeding according to plan, as millions of juveniles were removed from the wilds and the process of socializing them began. So while the Queen stood with her back to a huge viewport, the cloud-wrapped planet made a fitting background as the royal addressed the most senior members of her staff.
“The attack on Gamma-014 was an unqualified success,” the Queen began matter-of-factly, as she surveyed the faces in front of her. “Our forces are in complete control of the planet. Meanwhile, based on intelligence provided by Thraki agents in the Clone Hegemony, it appears that an alliance has been struck. It will take the humans time to assemble a joint task force and launch a counterattack on Gamma-014. Once they do, our naval forces will fade away allowing the allies to land in force.”
“Now,” the monarch added meaningfully, as her compound eyes swept the compartment, “iridium is important, but let’s discuss the true purpose of the attack on Gamma-014, and what we stand to gain.”
Ubatha felt a surge of satisfaction. His instincts had been correct! The attack on Gamma-014 had a greater purpose. But what was it? The answer came as a complete shock. “The attack on Gamma-014 is a feint,” the monarch explained, as a holographic star map blossomed behind her. It showed a class-five star orbited by eight planets and some smaller planetoids. “In fact, the entire campaign is a diversion intended to draw military assets away from the real target, which is Earth. While a number of species belong to the Confederacy, it’s the humans who hold the organization together, and therefore represent the greatest threat to our people. So by attacking their home world, we attack the heart of the Confederacy.”
There was a long moment of silence as the compartment full of functionaries sought to absorb what they had just heard. That was followed by the staccato rattle of pincers as all but one of the government officials communicated their approval. The single exception was Chancellor Ubatha, who, though ever eager to please the Queen, was unwilling to signal approval he didn’t actually feel. Her majesty noticed this immediately. “I’m glad so many of you approve,” the monarch said tactfully. “But I expect more from my advisors than applause. Chancellor Ubatha? I sense you have doubts.”
The invitation could constitute a trap, a way to draw Ubatha out into the open, then take his head off. The functionary knew that, but had risen to high office by offering honest counsel, and was constitutionally unable to do otherwise. “Yes, Majesty,” Ubatha replied solemnly, as he came to his feet. “While what Your Highness said regarding the humans is true—there are other factors to consider as well. Based on intelligence reports, as well as media analysis, we know only a third of Earth’s population truly supports the war. Primarily because the conflict is so distant and has yet to touch their daily lives. But I fear that an attack like the one you describe will shatter their sense of complacency and serve to rally both the animals who live on Earth and the hundreds of millions who dwell elsewhere. Thereby strengthening the opposition rather than weakening it.”
Ubatha paused to look around before taking his argument to its logical conclusion. “So I oppose an attack on Earth,” the functionary concluded gravely. “But if overruled on this matter, I recommend that we glass the planet, rather than simply occupy it. Because by rendering the world uninhabitable, we will strike the sort of psychological blow that you visualize, but without being required to commit any troops. Soldiers we will need when the surviving humans seek revenge. Thank you for the opportunity to speak.”
Only one pair of pincers was heard to clack. But they belonged to the Queen, who understood how difficult such a speech was, especially given the political risk involved. “Thank you,” the monarch said sincerely, as the rest of her advisors watched the drama unfold. “You make some excellent points. But I am going to overrule you—for the following reasons. First, the same intelligence reports that you referred to make it clear that even as the more adventurous members of the human species left for the stars, there was a marked tendency for lazy, self-satisfied, and privileged members of the race to remain on Earth. Which means the planet will be relatively easy to pacify.
“Secondly, were we to glass the planet as you suggest that we should, it could cause the surviving humans to launch another attack on Hive. The last one killed 1.7 million Ramanthian citizens—so how many would the next assault kill?” she demanded rhetorically.
“Thirdly, rather than render Earth uninhabitable, I want to use the planet as a bargaining chip. A tidbit that we can negotiate over for the next twenty years. Then, when all five billion of the great mother’s children reach adulthood, we will sweep through the Confederacy and eradicate the animals once and for all!”
The plan was so audacious, and so farsighted, that all of Ubatha’s doubts were swept away. “Thank you, Majesty,” the Chancellor said humbly. “I have seen the future, and it is ours.”
* * *
PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
The sky was lead gray, and the temperature hovered just above freezing, as Mama Dee led her ragged flock of followers west along the two-lane highway. A bitterly cold wind pressed against their scarf-wrapped faces as a heavily loaded Ramanthian convoy passed them headed in the opposite direction. The humans could feel the wash of heat produced by the alien power plants and hear the rattle of click-speech as one of the troop transports passed them. The bugs might have stopped the band of humans had it not been for the “truce stick” clutched in their leader’s left hand.
Dee was a big-boned woman who looked a lot like her broad-faced Ortov mother. Although some of her Chan-line father’s DNA could be seen in the shape of her eyes and the breadth of her nose, most of her body was concealed by an ankle-length gray cloak that was cinched around her waist with a length of rope. All manner of items dangled from the makeshift belt, and they appeared to dance as she turned to look over her shoulder. Then, having assured herself that the group was intact, Dee faced the wind.
Like most free breeders the “Children of Nature,” as they called themselves, had been forced to eke out a living high in the mountains or risk sanctions from the “true breeders” who lived on arable land at lower elevations. Founder folk, which was to say bigots, who continued to believe in the nonsense Dr. Carolyn Anne Hosokawa put forward, in spite of how absurd the theory of rational design obviously was. Such hostility made life difficult, very difficult, but now Dee and her flock were faced with another problem. Because only three days after seizing control of the planet, a squad of heavily armed Ramanthians had appeared in their village and ordered the Children of Nature to walk all the way to the city of Ship Down, where a civilian POW camp had been established. And, to make sure the humans did as they were told, the aliens destroyed the collection of stone huts that constituted the village even as the refugees left.
Of course Dee and her two dozen followers had no desire to enter a camp, especially one populated by founder folk. But they hadn’t been able to come up with a realistic alternative. The truce stick was actually a tracking device shaped like a staff, which provided the Ramanthians with real-time data regarding the family, and where it was going. In fact it could actually “see” them, and their surroundings, or so the bugs claimed. They could dump the device of course, but that would cause the chits to send a shuttle. And Dee knew what would happen next. The Ramanthian aircraft would locate her family and put all of them to death. That left Mama Dee with no alternative but to trudge toward the dimly seen afternoon sun and hope for the best.
Having moved into position during the hours of darkness, and having found cover on a rocky ledge, there had been little for Colonel Six and two of his Seebos to do but hunker down in their sleeping bags, and take turns trying to sleep. But it was difficult due to the pervasive cold, the muted roar of the river below them, and the occasional whine of turbines as Ramanthian convoys crossed the bridge nearby. The light arrived gradually, as if hesitant to replace the darkness, and was filtered by a thick layer of clouds. A fire was out of the question, but Six gave permission for one of the Seebos to heat some water with a carefully shielded fuel tab.
Having brushed his teeth, and taken a somewhat awkward piss, the officer crawled forward to the point where he could place his back against a rock and peer through a screen of lacy vegetation. The target was an arched bridge. It was about half a mile away and still shrouded in mist. The vapor began to dissipate as the air warmed and vehicles loaded with troops, heavy weapons, and supplies continued to cross it. All were viewed from an angle, since the clone’s vantage point was down canyon, looking toward the southeast. Meanwhile, directly below the bridge, river 241.2 jumped and boiled as if eager to escape the mountains and travel to more hospitable climes below.
Six heard a scraping sound and turned to find that Corporal One-O, as his comrades called him, had arrived with a mug of steaming tea. It had been necessary for the Seebo to duckwalk, and though a small amount of the precious liquid had been lost during the trip, most of it still remained. “Here you are, sir,” One-O said cheerfully. “Are two sugars enough?”
“That’s plenty,” Six replied gratefully. “Thank you. Once you’ve had your tea, pack up the gear, and tell Niner to bring the launcher. We’ll wait for a heavily loaded convoy, dump the bridge into the canyon, and haul ass.”
“That’ll show the bastards,” One-O said approvingly. “Don’t worry—we’ll be ready.”
“Good,” Colonel Six responded, and allowed the lichen-covered rock to accept his full weight. The mug warmed his hands, the bridge drew his eyes, and the officer wondered how many bugs he would kill on that particular day.
“Okay, squirt,” Mama Dee said, as she scooped the child up off the road. “How ’bout a ride?”
“I’m tired,” the little girl complained. Her nose was running, and she wiped it with a sleeve.
“I know you are,” Dee said sympathetically. “But look down there! See the bridge? Once we cross it, we’ll stop for lunch. How does that sound?”
“Can I have a cookie?” the child wanted to know.
“Yes, you can,” Mama Dee assured her, and started downhill. Treacherous though the truce stick might be, it made a good staff, and gave off a solid thump each time it made contact with the ground. There weren’t any vehicles on the road at the moment, which was just as well, as the civilians followed a series of steep switchbacks down to the steel bridge. That was the moment when Colonel Six spotted the group, made a minute adjustment to his binos, and swore as the faces rolled into focus. A couple of them looked familiar, but most were unique, and therefore suspect. Corporal One-O and Private-469 had come forward by then and were ready to fire the rocket launcher. The pincer-operated controls were a bit strange, but Nine was confident that he could fire the weapon, and was clearly eager to do so. Having heard Colonel Six swear, One-O was curious. “What have we got, sir?” the noncom inquired. “A problem?”
“A group of mongrels,” Six replied disgustedly. “That’s what we’ve got. All headed for lower ground.”
A high-pitched whine was heard, and Six panned the binos to the right, just in time to see a vehicle appear at the west end of the bridge. The troop carrier paused, and the shrill sound of a whistle was heard as a squad of Ramanthian troopers shuffled forward to inspect the structure, a precaution Six hadn’t seen before. Did that mean other convoys had been ambushed? Yes, the officer thought to himself. If the possibility of guerrilla warfare occurred to me, it would occur to my brother officers as well.
One of the Ramanthian troopers paused to dump his gear onto the bridge deck, before spreading his wings and slowly taking to the air. It was a rarely seen sight and an excellent reminder of what the bugs could do. The soldier soared out over the gorge, entered a downward spiral, and disappeared under the span—the place where demolition charges if any were most likely to be found.
“Get ready,” Six said, without turning toward the men crouched beside him. “I don’t know what’s lined up behind that troop carrier—but I have a feeling it’s the kind of target we want. We’ll wait until the bridge deck is full before firing the first rocket. Load the second one as fast as you can.”
“Sir, yes sir,” One-O said obediently. “But what about the civilians?”
Six swung the binos left just in time to see the group of free breeders arrive at the bottom of the opposite slope and step onto the far end of the bridge. The truth was that he had forgotten all about the degenerates until One-O’s reminder. And now, as they started to cross the span, the first vehicle of the Ramanthian convoy rolled onto the structure from the west. Had the civilians been members of a recognized line, Six would have been compelled to cancel the attack. But this was different because the ragged-looking creatures were accidental people—random beings that had no recognized place within the founder’s plan. Whereas the Ramanthian troop truck, two tank carriers, and the support vehicle that were halfway across the span had tremendous value. Especially to the enemy. So as the two groups came into alignment, and the final seconds ticked away, Six made his decision. “Clear your safeties. Prepare to fire. Fire!”
Had one of the Legion’s officers given the order to a legionnaire, it was quite possible that the man or woman operating the weapon would have refused to obey. Because legionnaires were supposed to disobey what they knew to be illegal orders. But such was the relationship between the Seebos that most of the clones couldn’t even conceive of refusing an order from one of their brothers. So Nine gave the firing bulb a hearty squeeze, felt the tube resting on his shoulder jump, and heard a loud whoosh as the alien missile raced away. The warhead hit the center of the bridge, produced a flash of light, and a boom that echoed through the canyon. Smoke swirled, and a single chunk of concrete fell free, but the overall structure remained intact.
Mama Dee and her tiny charge had been thrown facedown by the force of the blast. But the clan leader was quick to regain her feet. The child was crying, as Dee plucked the tyke off the debris-strewn pavement, and yelled, “Run!” The west end of the bridge was about a hundred feet away. It looked like a mile.
“Put the next missile on the last truck!” Six shouted, as the smoke cleared. The Ramanthians were firing wildly by then, being unsure of where the first rocket had come from, but hoping to suppress the incoming fire.
Private-469 did as he was told, saw the rocket fly straight and true, and had the satisfaction of witnessing a direct hit. There was a tremendous roar as the boxy vehicle blew up, cut the bridge in half, and dumped both tank carriers into the raging waters below. Six noted that the first truck, the one loaded with troops, was on the far side of the gorge. That was unfortunate—but couldn’t be helped.
Meanwhile Mama Dee and roughly half her family stood at the west end of the broken span and stared down into the wreckage-choked canyon. All of the free breeders were sobbing except for Dee, who was too angry to cry. Slowly, and with a precision that sent a chill down Colonel Six’s spine, the deviant turned to look into his eyes. Because the woman on the bridge knew the rockets had been fired by one or more Seebos, knew her people had been sacrificed, and knew someone was looking at her.
Finding it impossible to look the woman in the eye, Colonel Six lowered the binoculars, and scowled. “Throw the launcher into the gorge, and let’s get out of here,” he growled.
Another blow had been struck—and another price had been paid.
* * *
PLANET ALPHA-001, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
The Plaza of the Immortals was half a mile wide and a mile long. The arena was oriented to the planet’s north pole so that each point of the compass was represented by a formal entrance. Thousands upon thousands of tiered seats slanted up away from the plaza, and all of them were filled. Not randomly, but according to genetic lines, which meant that office workers were seated with office workers, construction workers with construction workers, and so forth. And each section of seats was backed by a towering statue of the “immortal” from whom that particular line of DNA had been copied. So it appeared as if hundreds of gods were present to preside over what took place within the plaza, each stern-faced visage staring out over its progeny, as if able to see something that mere mortals couldn’t comprehend.
It made for a very impressive spectacle as Alpha Clones Antonio, Pietro, and even the ailing Marcus sat atop the three-story-high reviewing stand just below likenesses of their progenitors. And one level below them, in seats reserved for foreign dignitaries, President Nankool and his staff were present as well, something the millions of clones who had been ordered to watch video of the ceremony on their dormitory screens could plainly see.
The carefully planned extravaganza began with a low-altitude flyover by six wing-to-wing fighters—and martial music so loud that Vanderveen was forced to cover her ears at times. That was followed by the ceremonial entrance of the famed Lightning Brigade, who ironically enough weren’t slated to lift for Gamma-014, but were present to lead the rest of the troops onto the plaza.
And as music played, and flags snapped in the breeze, Vanderveen couldn’t help but be impressed as thousands of combat-ready Jonathan Alan Seebos marched into the long rectangular arena, split into company-sized groups, and turned the plaza into what looked like a gigantic chessboard.
But then, as groups of clones who didn’t look a bit like the Jonathan Alan Seebos began to enter the arena, Vanderveen heard exclamations of dismay from the more senior officials seated around her. “They’re conscripts!” the secretary of the navy was heard to say. “The bastards are sending civilians to fight the Ramanthians!”
Vanderveen was far too junior to be seated next to the president, but she could see him, and knew the man well enough to recognize the anger on his face as General Booly leaned in to whisper something into his superior’s ear. Because rather than contribute crack troops, the way they were supposed to, it was clear that clones intended to pad their force with people drawn from nonmilitary genetic lines.
But there was nothing that Nankool, Booly, and the rest of the staff could do but sit and watch as the last of the conscripts took their places, and everyone in the arena was subjected to a thunderous noise as a formation of aerospace shuttles swept in to hover just above the parade ground. Then, with a degree of precision that bespoke countless hours of practice, the transports settled into the squares not occupied by people. It was an extremely impressive maneuver that was calculated to impress the citizens of the Confederacy, many of whom were watching the live feed via the new hypercom technology.
No sooner were the shuttles on the ground, and their engines silenced, than the speeches began. Speeches by workers, minor officials, major officials, Alpha Clone Antonio, and finally Marcott Nankool. Who, though furious at the Hegemony’s leaders, had no choice but to join them on the reviewing stand and praise the alliance.
As music played, and the audience cheered, thousands of troops entered their shuttles, took their seats, and strapped in. Once the loading process was complete, the transports took off the same way they had landed, in unison.
Then, as part of a carefully choreographed aerial ballet, the shuttles peeled away from the formation one at a time, accelerated upwards, and were soon lost to sight as their contrails merged to form an arrow that pointed upwards. That was the cue for the members of the Lightning Brigade to come to attention, march out through the exits, and return whence they had come.
Vanderveen was happy to see them go. Finally, after more than four hours of sitting in a chair, it felt good to stand and follow her “betters” down to ground level, where a formal reception was about to begin. It was the sort of function that would normally be quite boring, but might become rather heated, given the way in which the Confederacy had been snookered. Vanderveen was understandably curious regarding how Nankool would handle the situation, so she began to shadow the chief executive as the party began. That strategy quickly paid off as the president and the Alpha Clones came together. Marcus had been forced to leave, due to his health, but Antonio and Pietro greeted Nankool like old friends. And Nankool responded in kind.
But then, as soon as he reasonably could, the president spoke his mind. The words were measured, but his jaw was tight, and his eyes were bright with repressed anger. “That was a very impressive ceremony, gentlemen. But I was surprised to see a substantial number of civilians mustered on the plaza. It was my understanding that the Hegemony would contribute crack troops.”
Given the fact that Alpha Clone Antonio had consistently spoken for the Hegemony up until that point—Vanderveen found it interesting that it was Pietro who chose to respond. He had light brown skin, flashing black eyes, and perfect teeth. The clone was wearing a well-draped toga with his trademark pin on the left shoulder. And, judging from Antonio’s expression, it seemed as though the first Alpha Clone was annoyed by his brother’s tardy participation. “Yes,” Pietro said blandly, “that was our intention, until General-453 entered into the discussions. It’s his opinion that the Legion, combined with our brave Seebos, and members of the newly formed Civilian Volunteer Army (CVA), will trounce the Ramanthians within a matter of weeks. . . . Isn’t that right, General?”
As if on cue, General Jonathan Alan Seebo-785,453 materialized out of the crowd. The officer possessed his line’s manly good looks, but there was something slightly dissipated about the way his features sagged, and the puffiness of a body that hadn’t been required to march anywhere in a long time. But even if Four-fifty-three didn’t cut a soldierly figure, he was a skilled bureaucrat, and could be quite charming. “President Nankool!” the general said heartily. “And General Booly . . . This is an honor. It’s a pleasure to meet you.
“Yes,” the clone officer continued, as he looked from face to face. “I took the liberty of making some rather timely changes based on intelligence received over the last few days. Given the size of the force at our disposal, and the relatively small number of Ramanthians on Gamma-014, we should be able to overwhelm the ugly beasts in no time at all. So rather than commit too many of my brethren to the task, thereby weakening the Hegemony’s defenses elsewhere, I chose to send a CVA regiment along instead. Not in direct combat roles, mind you, but to provide engineering, logistics, and medical support.”
“That plan assumes a conventional war,” Booly said pointedly. “What makes you so sure the bugs will fight that way? The Ramanthians will be well entrenched and could come at us from all directions.”
General-453 wasn’t used to having his orders questioned, or so it appeared from the blood that rushed to his face, and the way his fists were clenched. “First,” Four-fifty-three replied icily, “I believe it is customary to address a superior officer as ‘sir.’ An honorific to which I, as commanding general, am clearly entitled.
“Secondly, while the Legion is no doubt extremely knowledgeable where the Confederacy is concerned, Gamma-014 lies within the Hegemony, which means I am in the best position to judge what is and isn’t appropriate.”
“Except that Gamma-014 lies within the Ramanthian Empire at this point,” Booly observed pointedly. “Which is where it’s likely to remain unless we send enough troops to take it. Sir.”
“Please,” Alpha Clone Pietro said, as he held up his hands. “Save your energy for the Ramanthians! We are allies, and I’m sure that command differences, if any, can be resolved over some good food! Come, let’s eat.”
Nankool wanted to continue the debate, as did Booly, but it would have seemed boorish to do so. Therefore, both the president and his top general were forced to follow Pietro as he led them to a table loaded with refreshments. And Vanderveen, who knew Santana might be among the legionnaires sent to Gamma-014, was left to worry. The knowledge brought scant comfort—but the first stage of the counter offensive was under way.
* * *
ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY’S TROOP TRANSPORT ENCELADUS,
JUST OFF PLANET GAMMA-014, THE CLONE HEGEMONY
In spite of the fact that the Enceladus was a large ship, and specifically designed for transporting troops, the vessel was so crammed with people that Captain Antonio Santana had to maneuver around marines who were camped in the main corridor, and squeeze past the boxes of rations that were stacked along the lesser passageways, before being able to enter the warren of compartments reserved for the 1st REC. A bio bod shouted, “Attention on deck!” as the officer appeared, but Santana said, “As you were,” before most of the legionnaires could respond.
It was too warm for comfort as Santana entered a fuggy miasma made up of equal parts perspiration, gun oil, and ozone. Greetings came from all sides as he worked his way back through the maze of lockers and bunks toward the area set aside for noncoms. Because of the heat, most of the bio bods were walking around in T-shirts and shorts.
Their war forms were stored below, adjacent to the hangar bay, so the cyborgs were equipped with spider forms. And thanks to their extraordinary mobility, the borgs had been able to colonize the overhead, where a maze of exposed girders, pipes, and ductwork provided a habitat no one else could take advantage of.
Meanwhile, down at deck level, the bio bods were listening to music, watching vids, playing cards, repairing their gear, cleaning weapons, doing push-ups, or just shooting the shit. “Whatcha got for us, sir?” Staff Sergeant Briggs wanted to know, as he looked up from his hand comp. “Are we headed dirtside?”
It had been noisy till then, but the sound level dropped by 50 percent as everyone waited to see what Santana would say. “We’ll hit the dirt soon,” the company commander predicted. “But not today. . . . The bugs had quite a welcoming party waiting for the navy—and the swabbies are still in the process of kicking their ugly butts. Then, once the heavy lifting is over, we’ll go down and tidy up.”
That produced a chorus of chuckles, and the legionnaires went back to whatever they had been doing as Santana weaved his way through the crowded compartment and made his way back to where Company Sergeant Dice Dietrich was seated on the deck. The noncom had his back to a corner, his eyes were closed, and it appeared that he was asleep. But when Santana entered the area, Dietrich’s eyes snapped open, and he was suddenly on his feet. “Good morning, sir,” the noncom said. “And welcome to the sauna.”
Santana grinned. “Thanks, Top. . . . I don’t know which is worse. This, or the two-person cabin I’m sharing with three of my fellow officers. Here’s hoping we get dirtside before we all go crazy. In the meantime I have a job for you. . . . It seems Private Bora-Sa got into a game of Rockets and Stars with some jarheads, came to the conclusion that he was being cheated, and put five of them in the sick bay. There weren’t any fatalities, thank God,” the officer added gratefully. “But the brig is overcrowded, so the jarheads are willing to release the idiot into our custody, so long as we promise to keep him here.”
Like all Hudathans Bora-Sa was huge, and Dietrich couldn’t help but smile, as he imagined marines flying in every direction. “Yes, sir. I’ll go get him.”
“Thank you,” Santana replied. “And tell the private that he’s going to pull every shit detail that Sergeant Telveca can come up with for the next thirty days.”
“I’ll tell him,” Dietrich agreed grimly. Then, having eyeballed the officer’s flawless Class B uniform, the noncom raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking pretty sharp today, sir. . . . If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Santana knew that was Dietrich’s roundabout way of asking where he was going, whom he was about to see, and ultimately why. “It seems that the commanding general is flying from ship to ship in an effort to meet as many senior officers as he can,” the legionnaire explained. “Colonel Quinlan was invited, and since the XO isn’t available, General Kobbi tapped me to sit in for him.”
Dietrich nodded. The XO had been injured in a vehicle accident back on Adobe—and had therefore been unable to lift with the rest of the regiment. Most of the enlisted people thought Santana should be named acting XO, but no announcement had been made, and now it looked as though Kobbi might be about to force the issue. All of which was well above Dietrich’s pay grade, so the noncom was careful to keep his face expressionless, as he made his reply. “Sounds like fun, sir. Have a good time.”
Santana had a deep and abiding hatred of meet-and-greet evolutions, a fact that Dietrich was well aware of. Which was why the officer said, “Screw you, Top,” before executing a neat about-face, and exiting the compartment.
Meanwhile, all of those who had been busy listening to the conversation witnessed the interchange, saw Dietrich smile, and chuckled appreciatively. Entertainment was in short supply aboard the Enceladus—so any diversion was welcome.
Crowded though conditions were on the troopship, battalion commanders had been given cabins of their own so they would have a place to meet with subordinates. When Santana arrived outside Quinlan’s quarters, the officer saw that the hatch was closed and assumed another visitor was inside. Military courtesy required him to knock three times and wait for an invitation to enter. When nothing happened he knocked again and counted to thirty.
Still not having received a response, and expecting to find that Quinlan had departed without him, the officer palmed the entry switch just in case. Much to his surprise the hatch cycled open. A few tentative steps carried Santana inside. And there, slumped over his fold-down desk, was Colonel Liam Quinlan.
The officer was drunk, judging from the half-empty bottle of gin at his elbow, and completely motionless. “Colonel?” Santana said experimentally as he reached out to touch the battalion commander’s arm. “Can you hear me?” Quinlan attempted to lift his head, mumbled something incomprehensible, and began to snore.
Conscious of how the scene would look should someone pass by, Santana hit the door switch, and waited for the hatch to close before returning to the desk. The colonel was in love with meetings, especially ones where he could clock some face time with his superiors, so why was the bastard drunk?
Having noted that the battalion commander was facedown on a sheet of official-looking hard copy, Santana placed a hand on top of the other officer’s nearly bald skull, hooked his fingers over Quinlan’s forehead, and pulled upwards. That freed the piece of paper, which the legionnaire removed prior to lowering the other man’s head onto the desk.
The BuPers printout, because that’s where it had originated, was a bit blurry where some of Quinlan’s gin had come into contact with the ink, but still readable. As with all such messages, it was brief, formal, and brutally direct: “Dear Colonel Liam Quinlan,” the message began. “It pains us to inform you that your daughter, Lieutenant Junior Grade Nancy Ann Quinlan, was killed in action off CR-0654 in the Rebor Cluster. Please accept our heartfelt condolences regarding this terrible loss. More details regarding Lieutenant Quinlan’s death, plus remains, if any, will be forwarded to your address of record. Sincerely, Major Hiram Fogles, Commanding Officer ComSec, BuPers.”
Santana swore softly as he put the printout down and looked at a picture he hadn’t had any reason to pay attention to until then. The face that looked back at him was young, surprisingly pretty given her father’s porcine features, and locked in an eternal smile. The possibility that Quinlan might have a family, and have feelings toward them, had never occurred to Santana.
It wasn’t easy to drag the portly colonel over to his bunk, roll him onto it, and arrange his body so that he looked reasonably comfortable. Then, having thrown a blanket over the officer and dimmed the lights, Santana slipped out into the corridor. There was a gentle hissing sound as the hatch closed, and the red “Do not enter,” sign appeared over the entry.
The meet and greet with General-453 was already under way by the time Santana entered the ship’s wardroom. Kobbi was seated at the far end of the compartment and shot the company commander a questioning look as he slipped into the room. But there was no chance to talk as a marine colonel rose to pose a question. “What about weather, sir?” the grizzled leatherneck wanted to know. “I understand winter’s on the way—and we don’t have the proper equipment.”
Santana was seated next to Kobbi by that time, and the two men exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing. The cold-weather gear that Santana and Dietrich had “requisitioned” from the navy was aboard, but wouldn’t be issued until the very last minute, lest the swabbies find out what was going on.
Meanwhile, General-453 was perched on the corner of the head table and seemed to enjoy the interaction with his subordinates. “I understand the nature of your concern, Colonel,” he said smoothly. “Gamma-014 is well-known for the severity of its winters. Fortunately, our forces will be able to land and eradicate the bugs before the really nasty weather sets in. It may be necessary to leave an occupying force behind of course—but the Hegemony will supply them with whatever they need. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Kobbi said, as he came to his feet. “I wonder if the general could provide us with more information regarding the capabilities of the Civilian Volunteer Army. . . . Specifically, how much training they’ve had, what role they will play, and for which units?”
General-453 didn’t like the question, as was clear from the expression on his face and the contemptuous way in which his response was worded. “Kobbi is it? Well, General Kobbi. . . . Had you taken time to read the Plan of Battle, especially the subsection titled ‘The Role of Civilian Volunteers,’ you would already know the answer to your question. But, since you didn’t, I will reply by saying that each volunteer is genetically qualified to fulfill his or her role, is already an expert in one of three clearly defined support specialties, and has been through four weeks of rigorous military orientation. That training includes familiarization with the chain of command, roles and responsibilities for each rank, and the appropriate protocols.”
Everyone watched as Kobbi, who was still on his feet, nodded respectfully. “Sir, yes sir. . . . But can they fight?”
That produced a nervous titter, followed by a series of coughs, and a rustling noise as some of the officers repositioned themselves. The clone, who was visibly angry by that time, seemed to spit out his words one at a time. “Yes, General. The CVA can fight if need be. But if you, and your troops, do the job properly, they won’t have to. Will they?”
The caustic interchange might have continued had it not been for one of Four-fifty-three’s aides, who took the opportunity to intervene. “I’m sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but the general is due aboard the Mimas two hours from now, and his shuttle is waiting.”
The meeting broke up shortly after that, and Santana was forced to wait as more than a dozen officers stopped by to thank Kobbi for asking about the CVA, before filing out into the corridor. Finally, once they were alone, Santana had the opportunity to tell Kobbi about Quinlan’s daughter.
The senior officer winced and shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid things aren’t going well, Tony—not well at all.”
Was Kobbi referring to Quinlan’s daughter? General-453’s arrogant leadership style? Or to the conduct of the entire war? There was no way to be sure—and Santana knew better than to ask.