When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  But rather than pursue a career in science or business as she easily could have—Vanderveen had chosen to follow her father into the world of politics and diplomacy. A not especially profitable career path, but one that Charles Winther Vanderveen could well afford, thanks to his inherited wealth.

  Santana heard a whirring sound, felt a puff of displaced air hit the back of his neck, and was already in the process of turning and reaching for a nonexistent sidearm when the airborne robot spoke. “Raise your hands and stay where you are,” the globe-shaped device advised sternly. “Or I will be forced to stun you consistent with Community S-reg Covenant 456.7.”

  Santana raised his hands, and was forced to answer a series of security-related questions before the robot finally offered a pro forma apology and sailed away. The incident was humiliating, and if it hadn’t been for the opportunity to spend time with Vanderveen, the soldier would have left Napa there and then.

  Having guided his rental car in between the stylized stone lions that stood guard to either side of the steel gate, Santana was forced to pause while a scanner checked his retinas. Only then was he allowed to proceed up the gently curving driveway that passed between an ornate fountain and the front of the house. Strangely, the mixture of emotions that Santana felt was reminiscent of going into combat.

  The well-packed gravel made a subtle crunching sound as the tires passed over it, and by the time the vehicle rolled to a stop, a woman dressed in riding clothes was already exiting the front door followed by two human servants and a domestic robot. She had carefully coiffed gray hair, a slim athletic build, and covered the distance to the car in a series of leggy strides.

  But what Santana found most striking of all was the woman’s face, which though older, was so similar to her daughter’s that there was absolutely no doubt as to who she was. “Captain Santana!” Margaret Vanderveen said enthusiastically. “We’re so glad you’re here! I hope the trip up from Vandenberg was comfortable.”

  Prior to making the journey, Santana had been careful to brush up on proper etiquette, and therefore waited for his hostess to extend her hand before reaching out to shake it. The grip was strong and firm, as was to be expected of someone who worked side by side with the people who tended her vines. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Santana said formally. “I can see where Christina got her looks.”

  “Please call me Margaret,” the woman replied easily. “And I can see how you managed to turn my daughter’s head! Please, come in. Thomas, Mary, and John will take care of your car and luggage.”

  Santana wondered which name applied to the robot, as he turned to retrieve a professionally wrapped package from the backseat, before allowing himself to be led inside. A formal entranceway emptied into a spacious great room that looked out over verdant pasture toward a turreted home perched on a distant hill. Though large, the home seemed smaller than it was because of all the artwork that Charles Vanderveen had not only inherited but brought home from a dozen different worlds. All of which had been integrated into an interior that was both eclectic and warm. A tribute to Margaret Vanderveen’s eye—or that of a professional decorator.

  “Please,” Margaret Vanderveen said. “Have a seat. What can I get for you? A drink perhaps? I’d offer something to eat, but dinner is only an hour away, and Maria would be most unhappy if I were to spoil your appetite.”

  “A drink sounds good,” Santana allowed. “A gin and tonic if that’s convenient.”

  “It certainly is,” the matron replied as she rang a little bell. “And I think I’ll join you.”

  There was the soft whir of servos as the robot appeared, took their orders, and left the room. Santana took that as his opportunity to present Mrs. Vanderveen with the carefully wrapped box. “Here,” he said awkwardly. “I had this made on LaNor.”

  As Margaret Vanderveen accepted the present, she discovered that it was surprisingly heavy. Although hostess gifts weren’t important to her, the fact that the young officer had gone to the trouble of bringing one spoke to his manners, and a desire to make a good impression. Both of which were promising signs. Especially given his rough-and-tumble beginnings. “Why, thank you, Antonio! That was unnecessary, but the Vanderveen women love presents, so I therefore refuse to give it back.”

  Mrs. Vanderveen was clearly attempting to be nice to him, so Santana allowed himself to relax slightly and wondered where Christine was. Out for a ride perhaps? Or gone shopping? There was no way to know, and he was afraid to ask lest the question seem rude.

  The wrapping paper rattled as Margaret Vanderveen took it off to reveal a highly polished wooden box. Intricate relief carvings covered the top and all four sides. Later, when the matron had time to examine them more closely, she would discover that they were battle scenes in which her daughter had played a role.

  But given the weight of the object, Margaret Vanderveen knew that the box had been designed to contain something more important. Something which, judging from Santana’s expression, he hoped she would like. Having found all of the little brass hooks that held the lid in place, Mrs. Vanderveen pushed each of them out of the way and removed the top. A sculpture nestled within.

  “There are some truly remarkable artisans on LaNor,” Santana explained. “The locals refer to the carvers as ‘wood poets,’ and for good reason.”

  As Margaret Vanderveen removed the wood sculpture from its case she found herself looking at a likeness of her daughter’s face that was so lifelike that it took her breath away. And then, before she could clamp down on what her mother would have regarded as an inappropriate display of emotion, tears began to flow down her cheeks. “It’s very beautiful,” the matron said feelingly. “And, outside of Christina herself, perhaps the nicest gift that I have ever received. Thank you.”

  The reaction was much stronger than anything Santana might have hoped for, but he wasn’t sure how to handle it, and he felt a tremendous sense of relief when the robot arrived with their drinks. That gave Mrs. Vanderveen an opportunity to excuse herself for a moment. Her eyes were dry when she returned. “Sorry about that,” she said. “But the likeness is so good that it took me off guard. Antonio—”

  “Please,” Santana interrupted. “My friends call me Tony.”

  Margaret Vanderveen smiled and nodded. “Tony, the truth is that I have some bad news to share with you, and I’ve been stalling. A few weeks after Christine came home on vacation, she was asked to join President Nankool’s personal staff and felt that she had no choice but to do so.”

  The older woman’s eyes seemed to beseech Santana at that point as if begging for understanding. “She knew you were on the way here,” Mrs. Vanderveen said. “And she knew there was no way to reach you in time. Believe me, Christine was absolutely beside herself with concern about how you would feel, and many tears were shed right here in this room. But there’s a letter,” the matron added. “This letter, which she left for you.”

  The letter had been there all along, sitting between them, concealed in a beautiful marble box. The lid made a soft thump as she put it down. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change for dinner,” the hostess said tactfully. “Ring the bell when you’re ready, and one of the servants will show you to your room.”

  The soldier said, “Thank you,” and stood as his hostess got up to leave. Once she was gone, he sat on the couch. The drink was still there, so he took a pull and returned the glass to its coaster. Then, with hands that shook slightly, Santana opened the envelope. As a faint whiff of perfume found his nostrils, the legionnaire was reminded of what it felt like to bury his face in Vanderveen’s hair.

  “My dearest Tony,” the letter began. “By now you know that I was called away by the one thing that can take precedence over you—and that is my duty to the Confederacy. And if we were not at war, even that would be put aside so that I could be with you!

  “But these are troubled times, my dearest. Times when bombs fall on innocent cities, when missiles destroy unarmed ships, and when all
that we both hold dear is at risk. So I beg your forgiveness, trust that you of all people will understand, and look forward to the moment when your arms will embrace me once again.

  “With love and affection, Christine.”

  The name was a little blurry, as if a tear might have fallen on it before the ink could dry, and Santana felt something rise to block the back of his throat. He wanted to run, to get as far away from the house that she had grown up in as he could, but it was too late for that. So the officer finished his drink, slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his new sports coat, and rang the little bell. The robot, whatever his name was, had clearly been waiting.

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  By the time Booly received the summons and arrived at what had once been Nankool’s private conference room, there was standing room only. The members of Vice President Jakov’s inner circle, including Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, were seated around the long oval table, leaving everyone else to stand along the walls. Doma-Sa had been given a huge Hudathan-sized chair consistent with his status as a head of state. But others, Madame X and Chien-Chu included, weren’t so lucky. Booly, who found himself crammed in next to his wife’s uncle, whispered into the cyborg’s plastiflesh ear. “What the hell is going on, Sergi? This wasn’t on the schedule.”

  “No,” the entrepreneur, politician, and reserve admiral agreed. “It wasn’t. And that was no accident! I used to pull the same stunt myself. . . . There’s nothing like a surprise meeting to catch the opposition off guard.”

  Booly looked at the room and back again. “The opposition being?”

  “Anyone who was close to Nankool,” Chien-Chu answered matter-of-factly. “And that includes you.”

  Booly had never seen his relationship with the president that way, since he was a soldier, and sworn to serve whatever person held the office. Including Jakov, were he to succeed Nankool. But it looked like the vice president had other ideas and intended to marginalize the Military Chief of Staff. Preliminary to replacing him? Yes, Booly decided, and wondered which one of his subordinates would be put in charge of the Confederacy’s military forces.

  There was a stir as Jakov entered the room from what had been Nankool’s office. The politician nodded and waved in response to a variety of greetings before stepping up to the table and looking around. “Hello, everybody— and thanks for coming on such short notice. But, as all of you know, we face something of a crises. President Nankool is dead or missing. And, absent information to the contrary, the first possibility seems to be the more likely of the two.”

  Jakov paused at that point and his staff, led by Kay Wilmot, nodded in unison. “It’s been my hope that our intelligence people would be able to figure out what happened to the president,” Jakov continued. “And I know they’ve done their best. But time has passed, and there are those who feel we should activate the succession plan before word of what happened in the Nebor system leaks out. Because if we fail to stay out in front of this thing, the news could result in panic.”

  Booly had to give Jakov credit. Rather than call for the activation of the plan himself—the politician had arranged for some of his cronies to do it for him. And one of them, the senator from Worber’s World, was quick to come to his feet. “The vice president is correct,” the bland-faced politician said fervently. “All of us feel badly about President Nankool, but we’re at war, and it’s absolutely imperative that we have strong leadership!” Wilmot had written those words and was pleased with the way they sounded as she added her voice to the chorus of agreement from those seated around her.

  “The first step,” Jakov continued, “is to issue a carefully worded press release. A confirmation vote will be held soon thereafter. With that out of the way, we’ll be free to tackle some new initiatives, which could trim years off the conflict and save millions of lives. More on that soon.”

  Doma-Sa’s hard flinty eyes made contact with Chien-Chu’s artificial orbs at that point, and even though they were from very different cultures, each knew what the other was thinking. There was only one way that Jakov and his sycophants could shorten the war—and that was to give the bugs a large portion of what they wanted. A period of relative peace might follow such an agreement. But at what price? Because ultimately the bugs would settle for nothing less than everything. A servo whined as the businessman’s hand went up. “May I say something?”

  It had been Jakov’s hope, and Wilmot’s as well, that neither Chien-Chu nor Doma-Sa would hear about the meeting quickly enough to attend. But both were present, and given the past president’s undiminished popularity, there was little the vice president could do but acquiesce. “Of course!” Jakov said heartily. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Simply this,” the cyborg said bleakly. “We know the president was planning to assume a false identity in order to blend in with the other POWs. So, if you announce that Nankool is missing, the bugs may very well take another look at the prisoners and quite possibly identify him. At that point the Ramanthians will almost certainly make some very public demands. What will happen then? Especially if it looks like you were in a hurry to succeed him?”

  Nankool was popular, very popular, so Jakov knew what would happen. A lot of voters would be unhappy with him. So much so that they might seek to block or even reverse his confirmation. Especially if ex-president Chien-Chu stood ready to oppose him. But the facts were the facts, and like it or not, the cyborg would have to bow to reality. “You make an excellent point,” Jakov replied smoothly. “But surely you don’t believe we can wait indefinitely. . . . How would we explain the president’s continued absence?”

  Jakov had a point, and Chien-Chu knew it, so the entrepreneur went for the best deal he thought he could get. The key was to buy time and hope that word of Nankool’s fate would somehow filter in. Then, if the president was dead, the cyborg would throw his support behind Jakov and try to exert influence on whatever decisions the politician made. “Thirty days,” Chien-Chu said soberly. “Let’s give the intelligence-gathering process thirty days. Then, if there’s no word of the president’s fate, I will support your plan.”

  The vice president would have preferred fifteen days, or no days, but didn’t want to dicker in front of his staff. That would not only appear unseemly but smack of desperation. Besides, assuming that Chien-Chu kept his word, the ex-president’s support would virtually guarantee a speedy confirmation process. “Thirty days it is then,” Jakov allowed. “In the meantime, it’s absolutely imperative to keep the lid on. Is everyone agreed?”

  There was a chorus of assent, but Wilmot knew her sponsor was likely to blame her for the way the meeting had gone, since she was the one who had put the idea forward. But Nankool was dead, Wilmot felt sure of that, and the day of succession would come. And when it did, Chien-Chu, his stuck-up niece, and the rest of Nankool’s toadies were going to pay. The thought pleased the assistant undersecretary so much that she was smiling as the meeting came to an end.

  PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Having surrendered the rental car to the traffic control system, Santana took his hands off the steering wheel and pushed the seat away from the dashboard. It was early afternoon, the Vanderveen estate was behind him, and he was happy to be free of it. Not that Charles and Margaret Vanderveen hadn’t been kind to him. They had. But what all of them had in common was Christine, and without her there to bind the three of them together, dinner had been stiff and awkward.

  Diplomat Charles Vanderveen had taken the opportunity to tell his wife about the importance of the hypercom, Santana’s role in capturing the all-important prototype, and his recent promotion, all intended to build the officer up. A kindness Santana wouldn’t forget.

  But when dessert was served, and Santana announced his intention to leave the following morning, neither one of the Vanderveens objected. And now, as the car carried the legionnaire south into the San Diego-Tijuana metroplex, Santana was lo
oking for a way to kill some time. Fortunately, there was a ship lifting for Adobe in two days. That would allow him to save some leave and rejoin the 1st Cavalry Regiment (1st REC) earlier than planned. Now that he was a captain, Colonel Kobbi would almost certainly give him a company to command. And, after the casualties suffered on Savas, it would be necessary to create it from scratch. It was a task the officer looked forward to and dreaded at the same time.

  The vehicle’s interior lights came on as the sprawling city blocked the sun, and the car entered the maze of subsurface highways and roads that fed the teeming beast above. A hab so large that the westernmost portion of it floated on the surface of the Pacific Ocean.

  But Santana couldn’t afford the pleasures available to people like the Vanderveens, not on a captain’s salary, and felt his ears pop as the car spiraled down toward the Military Entertainment Zone (MEZ), where his credits would stretch further.

  An hour later Santana had checked into a clean but no-frills hotel, stashed his luggage in his room, and was out on the street. Not a normal street, since the “sky” consisted of a video mosaic, but a long passageway lined by garish casinos, sex emporiums, tattoo parlors, cheap eateries, discount stores, and recruiting offices.

  Nor was Santana alone. Because hundreds of sailors, marines, and legionnaires flowed around him as they searched the subterranean environment for something new to see, taste, or feel. Most were bio bods, but there were cyborgs, too, all of whom wore utilitarian spiderlike bodies rather than war forms. Ex-criminals for the most part, who had chosen a sort of half-life over no life, and served a very real need. Especially during a period when the Confederacy was literally fighting for its life. Even if people on planets like Earth seemed unaware of that fact as they continued to lead their comfortable lives.