When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Any officer or trooper who surrenders will be executed.

  —Ramanthian Fleet Admiral Niko Himbu Standard year 2846

  ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN FREIGHTER ABUNDANT HARVEST, IN HYPERSPACE

  More than a thousand prisoners stood at the bottom of the long, narrow hull and stared up through the metal grating located a few feet above their heads. They could see lights, and the soles of their tormentor’s feet, but very little else. Christine Vanderveen was among them and, like all the rest, was extremely thirsty. Although the diplomat had been forced to surrender her watch back on the Gladiator, she figured that the POWs had been aboard the freighter for about three miserable days. And like those around her, Vanderveen’s body was so conditioned to the daily schedule that it somehow knew when the rain was about to fall. That’s what the prisoners called the water, in spite of the fact that the substance that gushed out of the Ramanthian hoses had already been swallowed, processed, and pissed many times before.

  Even so, the brackish stuff tasted good, real good, to people who were desperately thirsty. Which was why Vanderveen, Nankool, and all the rest of the POWs stood with their heads thrown back and their mouths wide open.

  Many, Vanderveen included, were naked. Having willingly traded their modesty for the opportunity to take a shower. And, even though the diplomat’s body was well worth staring at, such was the condition of their dry, cottony mouths, that none of the neighboring men were looking at the diplomat lest their heads be in the wrong position when the precious liquid started to fall. All of which stemmed from the fact that the Ramanthian command structure hadn’t expected to take prisoners in the Nebor system—and had been forced to put the animals on an H class freighter. A ship so inadequate that even the most beneficent of captors would have been hard-pressed to treat the POWs well, never mind Captain Dorlu Vomin, who regarded empathy as a sign of weakness.

  But Vomin was resourceful. So, rather than sit around and complain about the burden he’d been given, the veteran freighter captain employed both his recalcitrant crew and the prisoners themselves to shift all of the cargo from Hull 2, through the connecting cross section to Hull 1, thereby making half of the H-shaped ship available to house the mostly human cargo. Then, rather than attempt to rig some sort of temporary plumbing for the undeserving POWs, Vomin came up with a more efficient plan. By turning hoses on the animals twice each day, the crew could not only provide the prisoners with an opportunity to drink but flush their waste products into the bilges at the same time! Then, having been pumped out and purified, the water could be used again. The only problem was that the freighter’s recycling equipment was working overtime and might eventually fail under the strain.

  The sound of footsteps echoed between the metal bulkheads as Vomin began to pace back and forth. The Ramanthian was toying with them, and the prisoners knew it, because they’d been through the routine before. It was tempting to lower their heads until the coming diatribe ended, but they knew better than to do so. Because the wily Ramanthian had been known to start the rain halfway through one of his harangues. And once the water began to flow, there would be only fifteen seconds in which to take advantage of it. So as Vomin began to talk, the prisoners kept their eyes focused on the grating above.

  “Good morning,” the freighter captain began evenly. “I see that you stare up at me, like flowers following the sun, knowing that I am the source of all life.”

  The first time Vomin had delivered one of these strange speeches, there had been jeers, catcalls, and all manner of rude noises from the prisoners standing below. But having had their “rain” shortened by ten seconds, the POWs never made that mistake again. So they stood, jaws achingly open, while Vomin strutted above them. “You will lose the war,” the Ramanthian informed the prisoners. “And for a very simple reason. Because as you gathered various cultures under a single government each polluted the rest. Weakness was piled upon weakness, and flaw was piled upon flaw, until the center of the obscenity you call the Confederacy began to rot. A process that is well under way and will inevitably lead to a series of poor decisions. Decisions that my race will take advantage of.

  “Fortunately, the rest of your lives will be spent working on something worthwhile. Because there are jungles on Jericho. . . . Jungles that must be cleared for the benefit of our newly hatched nymphs. So as the Ramanthian rain begins to fall, I suggest that you savor each drop, knowing the full glory of the task that awaits you! That will be all.”

  As usual the hoses came on without warning as Vomin’s crew began to spray the gratings. The water cascaded down through thousands of openings to splatter grimy faces, fill dry mouths, and run in gray rivulets down along necks, torsos, and legs.

  Like those around her, Vanderveen took advantage of the “rain” in her own unique way. The key was to keep her head back, thereby gulping as much of the heavenly liquid as possible, while the jumpsuit that hung capelike down her back absorbed additional water. Water that she would suck out of the fabric once the hoses were turned off. Some people liked to use their boots to collect water, but that involved taking them off and risking a cut. A rather dangerous thing to do given all the nasty bacteria that lived on the bilge grating.

  So Vanderveen was content to swallow what she could, take a shower, and suck water out of her overalls before pulling them on again. Something the diplomat hurried to do so that the surrounding men had only a limited amount of time to stare at her.

  Then, their thirsts momentarily quenched, the prisoners were ordered to line up against both bulkheads facing inwards. Not by the bugs, who didn’t care how the animals positioned themselves, but by their own officers and noncoms. Who, with support from Nankool, were determined to maintain discipline. Especially at mealtime—which took place once each day.

  A section of grating rattled loudly as it was removed, and Vanderveen heard a sustained series of thumps, as exactly sixty cases of MSMREs (MultiSpecies Meals Ready to Eat) were dropped through the hole. The food had been scavenged from one of the Gladiator’s support ships subsequent to the battle and transferred to the freighter. Each case held twenty meals, which meant that twelve hundred meals were available, in spite of the fact that there were only 1,146 prisoners. That meant there was an overage of fifty-four MSMREs per day, which allowed the tightly supervised food committee to provide the Hudathan prisoners with extra calories, and to dole out additional meal components to everyone else on a rotating basis. And, since each meal consisted of a main dish along with six other items, such distributions were followed by a frenzy of trading as everyone sought to get rid of things they didn’t care for and secure those they liked.

  Food could even be bartered for sex, or that’s what Vanderveen had heard, although she made it a point to avoid the aft end of the hold, where such transactions were said to take place. But one meal a day wasn’t enough, so even though the FSO looked forward to eating whatever was in her ration box, the human knew she was losing both weight and strength.

  An hour later, the diplomat had finished the tiny cup of fruit that she had traded a candy bar and some crackers for, and was about to take the empty packaging forward, when one of the so-called word-walkers stopped by. He was a small man with narrow-set eyes, a twice-broken nose, and a three-day beard. “There’s gonna be a leadership meeting,” the messenger whispered. “Ten minutes.”

  Vanderveen thanked the man and took the trash forward to the “workshop,” where a team of prisoners was busy converting the MSMRE boxes into sandals for those who lacked boots, and multilayered body armor for the all-Hudathan assault team that would probably never have an opportunity to use it. Not unless the bugs made some sort of really stupid mistake. “But, it’s good to be prepared,” as Nankool liked to say. And work, any kind of work, was a morale booster.

  From there, Vanderveen made her way back to the point where a small group of people were assembled around Nankool. The filtered light threw dark bars across the president and those crouched around him. Sentries had been posted in
an effort to maintain security, but the FSO knew that there was no way to protect the most important piece of information that the prisoners had, and that was Nankool’s true identity. Everyone knew that, and because they did, were in a position to betray not only the president but the rest of the leadership team as well.

  Not that the bugs would have been surprised to learn that Commander Peet Schell, the Gladiator’s XO had assumed command of all military forces. But the rest of the leadership group (LG) wasn’t so obvious, starting with the president himself, who was posing as petty officer Milo Kruse, the square-jawed Roland Hooks, and the slimy Corley Calisco. Unfortunately, General Koba-Sa, Ambassador Ochi, and Captain Flerko had been killed. Nankool, who seldom if ever lost his sense of humor, smiled as the FSO joined the group. “Welcome, Ms. Vanderveen. May I be the first to say how lovely you look today?”

  Vanderveen, who was well aware of the fact that her skin was peeling and her hair was matted, made a face. “Thank you, Chief Petty Officer Kruse. And please let me be the first to congratulate you on the size and density of the furry thing that is in the process of eating your face.”

  Everyone laughed, Calisco loudest of all, as he imagined what the diplomat would look like without any clothes. Maybe, if he moved in closer just prior to the next rain, he could score a look.

  “So,” Nankool began. “For the first time since they put us aboard this tub, Vomin had something useful to say. It sounds like we’re headed for Jericho—which, if my memory serves me correctly, was one of the worlds that the Senate granted the Ramanthians as partial restitution for damage suffered during the Hudathan wars.”

  “That’s correct,” Hooks confirmed. “You may recall that Ramanthian Senator Alway Orno was quite skillful in arguing his case.”

  “Before he blew the Friendship to smithereens,” Schell added bitterly.

  “Not that we can prove that,” Calisco interposed primly.

  “It was a diversion,” Schell replied hotly. “The bugs stole thousands of Sheen ships while we were busy searching for survivors! How much goddamned proof do you need?”

  “It doesn’t matter who triggered the bomb,” Nankool said soothingly. “Not anymore. The point is that the Ramanthians snookered us out of some prime planets—and now they want us to make improvements on one of them.”

  “For their newborns,” Hooks added darkly. “Some five billion of them if our intelligence estimates are accurate.”

  “Which is why the bugs started this war,” Schell reminded them. “To obtain more real estate.”

  “Precisely,” Nankool agreed, as he scanned their faces. “So, how ’bout it? Has anyone been to Jericho?”

  Being the most junior person present, Vanderveen waited to see if any of her superiors would respond before raising a tentative hand. “I haven’t been there. . . . But I remember reading the survey report that was filed immediately after the second Hudathan War.”

  Nankool smiled indulgently. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense child. Share your knowledge!”

  Vanderveen’s blue eyes seemed to go slightly out of focus as she worked to summon the data acquired more than two years previously. “Jericho is an Earth-normal planet,” she began. “Which means it is Hive-normal, too. And, judging from the ruins that cover much of the planet’s surface, it was once home to an advanced civilization. Based on studies carried out by archeologists prior to the first Hudathan war, there are notable similarities between ancient structures and artifacts present on Jericho and those cataloged on planets like Long Jump, Zaster, and Earth.”

  “All of which is consistent with the possibility of a forerunner race,” Hooks observed. “Or races . . . Which might account for some of the physiological similarities between certain species.”

  “Many of whom would rather slice off a nose or beak than admit to any sort of common ancestry,” Nankool observed. “Go ahead, Christina. . . . You were saying?”

  “I don’t remember all the details,” the diplomat confessed. “But I believe Jericho has a middle-aged sun, a stable orbit, and plenty of natural resources. Which is why the Hudathans sought to grab the planet during their expansionist phase—and the Ramanthians lobbied to take it away from them. A great deal of the surface is covered with jungle, however, which implies what could be a nasty food chain, not to mention some very uncomfortable conditions.”

  “How nasty?” Calisco wanted to know.

  “Real nasty,” Schell replied pessimistically.

  “Which means it’s going to be tough,” Nankool said thoughtfully. “And we have an obligation to prepare our people for that. Christine, once this meeting is over, round up our doctors. What have we got? Two of them? Good. Tell them we need to build strength, but conserve calories, and see what sort of exercises they suggest. Then, once we have a regimen ready, pass it to Commander Schell. He’ll make it mandatory. Okay?”

  What the president said made sense, and, as always, the FSO was impressed by the quality of Nankool’s leadership. “Yes, sir,” Vanderveen replied. “I’ll take care of it.”

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  As the yellow-orange ball of fire began to appear over the eastern horizon, the usual cacophony of sounds began as thousands of arboreal life-forms hooted, screamed, and squawked their morning greetings. But, strange though some of the native species were by human standards, none could compare to the camo-covered alloy sphere that rested high in the branches of a towering sun tracker tree. Which, having a very flexible trunk, was already turning its huge heat-absorbing leaves toward Jericho’s sun.

  The construct, which was home to a human brain named Oliver Batkin, was very similar to the so-called recon balls employed by Confederacy military forces, in that the sphere was about four feet in diameter, and equipped with repellers that allowed it to fly at altitudes of up to three hundred feet.

  The similarities ended there, however, since recon balls have tactical applications, and Batkin’s mission was to gather raw intelligence, upload it to one of the message torps in orbit around the planet, and send the vehicle back to Algeron. But not very often, since the number of reports the cyborg could make was limited by the number of torpedoes at his disposal.

  Now, as the more vocal members of the local biosphere combined their multitudinous voices to wake the spy from his slumbers, Batkin activated one of the four high-resolution vid cams that had been built into his technology-packed body. He had a good view thanks to the fact that the sun tracker tree stood head and shoulders above all the rest. The top layer of the forest looked deceptively soft and inviting even though Batkin knew that all sorts of dangers lurked below. But the view was beautiful, which was why the spy ball preferred to nest in the tallest of trees, standing like lonely sentinels over the jungle.

  That, at least, was consistent with how the onetime banker had imagined his new job, back in the hospital, when the recruiter dropped in to make her pitch. Six years working for the government. That’s what Batkin had agreed to in exchange for a Class IV cyber body, the kind that only the wealthiest humans could afford. Of course that was back just before the war, when the Ramanthians were members of the Confederacy, and he had been in intensive care. Since that time, Batkin been through a grueling training course, the bugs had precipitated a war, and the newly graduated spy had been sent to Jericho “to find out why the Ramanthians want it so badly.”

  That, at least, had been accomplished, because about three months after the cyborg plummeted through Jericho’s atmosphere, the egg-ships began to arrive. That’s what Batkin called them, because that’s what the freighters carried, lots and lots of eggs. Thousands upon thousands of the big ten-pound monsters that crews of specially trained Ramanthians “planted” in the jungle and left to hatch on their own.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was in the eggs, of course, but Batkin knew better than to make assumptions, and was therefore obliged to break one of the hard-shelled containers open and dissect its contents. A rather disgusting process that
confirmed the spy’s hypothesis. A Ramanthian population explosion was under way, Jericho was being used as a gigantic nursery, and all of known space would soon be crawling with voracious bugs. All this had been documented, uploaded to a message torp, and sent to HQ, along with enough electronic intercepts to keep Madame Xanith’s analysts busy for a couple of weeks. The accomplishment provided the cyborg with a momentary sense of satisfaction.

  But that was yesterday’s news, Batkin hadn’t uncovered anything since, and he was convinced he wasn’t going to. Not unless one counted the ugly-looking second-stage nymphs that had started to hatch and crawl around the jungle floor. A biologically interesting process, no doubt, and one that Batkin was duty-bound to document, but hardly the sort of intelligence coup that the spy dreamed of. Because even if the ex-banker’s physical body had been reduced to little more than raw hamburger during the high-speed train crash—the ambition that drove him remained undiminished. Something which, unbeknownst to him, was among the personality traits that Madame X’s recruiters had been looking for. Because complacent, self-satisfied intelligence agents had a very low success rate, especially when working alone.

  And so it was that the only spy on Jericho was resting among the branches of a very tall tree when artificial thunder rolled across the land, six white contrails clawed the clear blue sky, and a flock of red wings burst out of the jungle below. All of which caused Batkin to feel a sudden surge of hope. Because something was about to happen.

  The cargo compartment stank, or certainly should have, given the big globules of tan-colored vomit that floated in the air. But Vanderveen couldn’t smell them, the stink of excreta, or her own rank body odor anymore. In fact, it was as if nothing had the capacity to offend her nose as Jericho’s gravity reached up to take hold of the Ramanthian shuttle and pull it down. Not just the ship, but the solar systems of vomit as well, which fell like a putrid rain.