When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Then, having conveyed what scraps she could to one of the living skeletons who lay in the makeshift hammocks, Vanderveen typically returned to the hut where the LG was convened for its daily meeting. On that particular morning they were sitting around a small fire, eating the remains of their watery gruel, while Calisco turned a tiny corpse over the flames. Though numerous to begin with, and a welcome addition to the day’s ration of protein, the little six-legged jungle rats were scarcer now. Two drops of fat sizzled as they landed in the fire, and President Nankool pointed his spoon at one of the upended five-gallon cans. “Pull up a chair, Christine—the commander is delivering a lecture on space elevators.”

  “That’s right,” the naval officer confirmed. “I’ve seen them used on a variety of planets but never one like this. Because even though you can move a great deal of cargo with an elevator, they cost a lot of money to construct. Which means they don’t make a whole lot of sense on primitive planets.”

  “Not unless you’re expecting a huge population explosion,” Nankool said sourly. “Which the bugs are.”

  “Exactly,” Schell agreed. “Which brings us to the way space elevators work. A space elevator is a bridge between the sky and the ground. The main components include an orbiting counterweight, a cable long enough to reach the ground, and a big anchor. Most of the bridge hangs from the counterweight, and the lowest tension occurs at the base. That means the center of mass, which is located just below the counterweight, will be in geosynchronous orbit.

  “In order to climb the cable,” Schell continued, “energy is typically beamed to the transfer vehicle from the ground or orbit. But in this case, given that the Ramanthians want to bring lots of stuff down in a hurry, they’re going to get what amounts to a free ride. Because once the transfer vehicle is loaded, all the operator needs to do is apply the brakes in order to protect the module from overheating as it enters the planet’s atmosphere. So, given the situation, the plan makes sense. For the bugs that is. . . . But the whole process of reeling out sections of cable and hooking them together, is going to be a bitch. Especially if our people are hungry, and in some cases sick, while they work. We can expect a lot of casualties.”

  There was a humming sound as one of the monitors floated into the hut and hovered over their heads. Everyone knew Tragg used the robots to intimidate prisoners and track their activities. Nankool pretended to ignore the robot as he licked the bottom of his metal bowl. Then, having removed every last calorie of cereal, he smacked his lips. “Damn! That stuff gets better every day!”

  Tragg, who was watching a bank of monitors within the privacy of his well-guarded hut, smiled tightly. The guy with the bushy black beard had a sense of humor. You had to give him that. . . . The overseer continued to watch as the monitor made its rounds.

  Nankool waited for the robot to leave, made a rude gesture, and turned back to the LG. “Where was I before the airborne turd entered the room? Oh, yeah . . . Peet makes a good point. But while we can’t do much to improve their overall nutrition or health care, we can provide the troops with some refresher training. You know, lectures on zero-gee safety, that sort of thing. And we’d better get cracking because there isn’t much time. Is that it? Or is there more bad news to discuss?”

  “Sorry, boss,” Hooks put in regretfully, “but it looks like Tragg is beginning to interview our people one at a time. It began yesterday, and appeared to be random at first, until we drew up a list and discovered that all their names began with the letter ‘A.’ ”

  “What sort of questions did he ask?” Vanderveen wanted to know.

  “That’s the weird part,” Hooks replied. “As far as I can tell there wasn’t any pattern to the questions. Some people were asked about their specialties, which might make sense when you’re about to build a space elevator. But Tragg asked some of the others about their families, life in the camp, who’s sleeping with whom and that sort of stuff. The bastard is crazy.”

  “Maybe,” Vanderveen allowed thoughtfully. “But maybe not. . . . By asking all sorts of seemingly innocuous questions, he could get people to relax, build a matrix of information, and mine it for who knows what.”

  “And there’s another possibility,” Schell said darkly. “The whole process could be a cover for talking to people he has a particular interest in.”

  Nankool’s eyebrows rose. “You think someone flipped?”

  Schell shook his head. “I have no evidence of that, but I can’t rule it out.”

  Then we’ve got to identify them, Vanderveen thought to herself. And the diplomat might have said something to that effect had it not been for a series of shouts that caused the entire LG to file out into the open. That was when Vanderveen heard someone yell, “He’s making a run for it! Stop him!”

  But it was too late by then as a human scarecrow dodged two of the men who were trying to capture him, spun like the athlete he had once been, and ran straight for the fence. A silvery monitor gave chase but wasn’t close enough to fire its stun gun as the prisoner left the ground. He hit the wires with arms and legs spread to maximize the amount of contact and issued a long, lung-emptying scream as the electricity coursed through his body. The POW hung there and continued to cook long after he was dead. The air was heavy with the smell of burned flesh, and one of the prisoners threw up.

  Oliver Batkin captured the whole thing from his heavily camouflaged nest in the forest, took some more pictures of the badly blackened corpse, and wondered if either one of his message torps had gotten through. Because if they hadn’t, and help failed to arrive, more people would die on the fence. Many more . . . And Batkin didn’t know how much he could stand.

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The pit, which was the unofficial name for the military prison within Fort Camerone, was located more than ten stories below Algeron’s storm-swept surface. The facility included two tiers of cells that looked down onto a common area or “pit.” As Santana followed Command Sergeant Major Paul Bester out onto a platform that extended over the seventy-five-foot drop, the officer could feel the almost palpable mixture of anger, hatred, and hopelessness that surrounded those gathered below. All of them had been convicted of serious crimes prior to being sent to the pit where they were awaiting transportation to even-less-hospitable surroundings.

  That was scary enough, but making the situation even worse was the knowledge that here, somewhere among all of those hostile beings, were the roughly twenty-four men, women, and cyborgs who would accompany him to Jericho. Because Booly and the other members of the sub-rosa group that Santana reported to knew any effort to recruit legionnaires from regular line units would be reported to Vice President Jakov.

  Bester eyed the six pintle-mounted machine guns trained on the floor below and confirmed that all of them were properly manned before speaking into a wireless microphone. “Atten-hut!” The process of coming to attention took at least five seconds and could only be described as sloppy. But that was to be expected, and Bester was reasonably happy with the extent of their compliance as he eyed the inmates below. “The man standing next to me is Captain Antonio Santana. You will listen to what he says and keep your mouths shut until he is done. Is that understood?”

  The response was automatic and something less than enthusiastic. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  Like the guards, Bester didn’t rate the honorific “sir,” outside of the pit, but he was god within it. “I can’t hear you!”

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” the crowd roared.

  “That’s better,” the blocky noncom allowed grudgingly. “Because even though you might be scum, you’re Legion scum, and therefore the best goddamned scum in the galaxy!”

  Surprisingly, in spite of the fact that every single one of the people in the pit had been sentenced to prison by the organization to which they belonged, such was their overriding sense of pride that the response caused the railing under Santana’s right hand to vibrate. “Camerone!”

  It was amazing that an anc
ient battle in a small Mexican village could still evoke such passion. But it did, and Santana was moved by the strength of the response. Moved, and to some extent reassured, by the knowledge that the Legion had always been a refuge for criminals, who often fought valiantly in spite of their sordid backgrounds. Bester turned to Santana, assumed a brace, and saluted. “They’re all yours, sir.”

  The legionnaire nodded gravely and returned the salute. “Thank you, Command Sergeant Major.”

  Santana raised his own microphone as he turned back toward the pit. “Stand easy. . . . I know you have important things to do—so I’ll keep this session short.”

  That comment produced snorts of derision, some catcalls, and outright laughter from the assemblage below. Santana’s eyes roamed the crowd as he waited for the noise to die down. Most of the inmates were bio bods, but scattered here and there among the beings who looked back up at him were the bland metal faces that belonged to the cyborgs. Twice-condemned creatures with nowhere left to run. “I’m here because I need to recruit some legionnaires for a very dangerous mission,” Santana said honestly. “I can’t divulge the exact nature of the mission, other than to say that it’s very important to the Confederacy, and the chances of success are slim. That’s the bad news,” Santana concluded. “The good news is that any legionnaires who volunteer, and are selected for the team, will be pardoned. Regardless of their crimes.”

  There was a stir followed by the rumble of conversation as the prisoners reacted to the offer. “As you were!” Bester ordered sternly, and targeting lasers swept back and forth across the formation. The talk died away.

  “But I won’t take just anybody,” Santana cautioned. “And there are only twenty-six slots. That means thirteen bio bods—and thirteen cyborgs. But if you want to see some action, and if you’re interested in the possibility of a pardon, then give your name to the guards. Interviews will begin later this afternoon. That will be all.”

  Bester said, “Atten-hut!” and there was a loud crash as the multitude came to attention. “Dismissed!”

  Orders were shouted, and bodies swirled, as segments of the inmate population were sent back to their cells. Bester turned to Santana. The noncom’s deeply seamed face bore a look of concern. “I don’t know what you’re up to, sir, but surely you can do better than this lot. . . . Whatever the mission is will be dangerous enough without having to watch your back all the time. Why half that bunch would slit your throat for the price of a beer!”

  “I hear you, Sergeant Major,” Santana replied. “But there’s no other choice. The interviews will begin at 1400 hours assuming that we have some volunteers.”

  “Oh, you’ll have them,” the noncom allowed cynically. “The question is whether you’ll want them!”

  Maria Gomez had been laying on her rack, snatching some extra Z’s, when the order arrived. And now, as the noncom followed the shock-baton-toting guard through a maze of passageways into the heart of the infamous pit, the legionnaire wondered what the hell she was doing there. Having cleared the last checkpoint the soldier led Gomez out into the open area beyond. “The captain is in room two,” the private informed her, and pointed his club at a door on the other side of the hall.

  Gomez thanked the guard, straightened her uniform, and approached the open door. She knocked three times, took two steps forward, and snapped to attention. “Corporal Maria Gomez, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Santana looked up from the printouts laid out in front of him to the noncom who was framed by the doorway. The legionnaire’s face was expressionless, and she was staring at a point about six inches above his head. He could use Gomez, that was for sure, but would that be fair? Sergeant Major Bester felt sure that at least some of the pit rats would volunteer. And, given the long sentences that many of them faced, would consider themselves lucky to escape the pit, no matter how dangerous the mission might be.

  But, outside of a few run-ins with officers, Gomez had a clean record. Should he accept the noncom if she volunteered? Or find a reason to disqualify the legionnaire because he liked her? And would that be wrong? Such were the questions that swirled through Santana’s mind as he said, “At ease, Corporal. Come in and take a load off. I have some interviews to conduct—but I wanted to speak with you first.”

  Gomez didn’t know what to think as she entered the room and took the seat opposite Santana. That was when she became fully aware of the pistol, the cyborg zapper, and the shock baton that were laid out next to the officer’s right hand. An interesting array of tools for a man who was about to conduct interviews. “Okay,” Santana began, “here’s the deal.”

  Gomez listened attentively as the officer glossed over what he described as “. . . a top secret mission,” emphasized how dangerous it would be, and told her about the need to recruit prisoners. The enterprise was clearly hopeless. As was the way she felt about the serious-looking officer. But Santana was going to need someone to cover his six, so when he offered to find her a slot in another outfit, the noncom shook her head. “Thank you, sir, but no thanks. I like a good fight, you know that. So I’ll go along for the ride.”

  Santana felt a surge of gratitude. Because he would have to sleep sometime, and without dependable noncoms to keep his team of cutthroats under control, he could wake up dead. He looked her in the eye. “You’re sure?”

  Gomez nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Then welcome to Task Force Zebra, Sergeant. I can use the help.”

  Gomez was visibly surprised. “Sergeant?”

  Santana nodded. “The team will be made up of two platoons—with two squads in each platoon. I’m putting you down to lead the first squad in the first platoon. Have you got any objections?”

  It was a significant increase in responsibility, and to the noncom’s surprise, she welcomed it. “No, sir. No objections.”

  “Good. Come around and sit on this side of the table. I want you to take notes as I conduct the interviews. Then later, when the process is complete, I’m going to ask for your input. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Santana replied. “I know you’re going to like the first candidate. He’s an insubordinate son of a bitch who was sent to the pit for punching an officer in the face.”

  It was dark when the forty-three heavily shackled prisoners were led up out of the pit to a landing platform, where they and the guards assigned to accompany them were loaded onto a couple of cybernetic fly-forms. Then, with a minimum of fuss, both aircraft lifted. According to their flight plans, both cyborgs were taking part in a special ops training exercise. Which, all things considered, they were. Because, after two days of intensive interviews, the first part of the recruiting process was over. Now all Santana had to do was sort the wheat from the chaff. Assuming there was wheat hidden in the chaff.

  The flight lasted for about an hour and ended when the fly-forms put down in an abandoned village. The sun was up but wouldn’t be for very long. Like many indigenous habitations, the village had been left to melt back into the countryside as the Naa who lived in it left to seek better lives in the city that was growing up around the fort. It was just one of many changes brought on by the war, the fact that the government had been relocated to Algeron, and Naa independence.

  Once the prisoners and their guards were on the ground, repellers screamed and the fly-forms lifted off. Santana waited for the sound of the engines to die away before addressing the mob arrayed in front of him. The cyborgs had been slotted into unarmed T-2 bodies that towered above the bio bods.

  “Welcome to Camp Bust Ass,” the officer shouted, as the easterly wind tried to steal his words. “Congratulations on making the first cut. But since we have fifty volunteers, and only twenty-six slots, more than half of you will go back to the pit. So if you want to stay—show us what you can do. And I say ‘us,’ because Sergeants Norly Snyder and Pia Fox have joined the leadership team.”

  There were about twenty mounds, each signifying the location of an underground dwelling, a
nd the prisoners whirled as two fully armed T-2s burst out into the open. A potent combination indeed, and a not-so-subtle message to any prisoner, or prisoners, who thought they might be able to overpower Santana and Gomez. “Sergeant Snyder served with me during the Claw uprising on LaNor,” the officer continued. “And Sergeant Fox was part of the team that rescued the colonists on Hibo IV. So both of them know a thing or two about combat. You will follow their orders as you would follow mine.”

  The wind made a soft whining sound as it searched the village, found nothing of interest, and continued on its way. “Okay,” Santana said, as he eyed the faces arrayed in front of him. “Beautiful though it is—there’s an obvious shortage of amenities here at Camp Bust Ass. Conveniences like latrines, weatherproof huts, and a first-class obstacle course. Items that you will be privileged to dig, repair, and build, using supplies brought in yesterday. The noncoms will divide you into teams. Each team will have a goal, and each team member will have an opportunity to lead as well as follow. Those individuals who have the highest grades will get the opportunity to die glorious deaths. . . . And, all things considered, what more could any legionnaire want?”

  “Beer!” someone shouted, and Santana grinned. “Only winners get to drink beer. So, prove yourselves worthy, and it will be on me!”

  There was a loud cheer, followed by a volley of orders, and work got under way.

  A long series of extremely short Algeron days passed as the village was gradually transformed from a collection of abandoned hovels into something that resembled a military encampment, complete with its own subterranean chow hall, underground barracks, and an extensive obstacle course.