When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Vanderveen was hungry by then, very hungry, and followed the others to the chow line where the so-called scoops were serving the same gray gruel they had been ladling out when she left. Except that after weeks of cold MSMREs eaten aboard the Imperator, the hot mush actually tasted good! A sad state of affairs indeed. There wasn’t enough of the brew, however, and Vanderveen was busy licking the bottom of her bowl, when Calisco plopped down next to her.

  Some people, no make that most people, had been systematically weakened since the surrender. But Calisco was a notable exception. Because by some form of alchemy the diplomat couldn’t quite fathom, the sly, often-leering sycophant she had known aboard the Gladiator had been transformed into a person Vanderveen could almost like. Because he was a man who had been through a terrible experience and somehow been purified by it. Even if Calisco still had a tendency to look at the FSO as if she were naked.

  Calisco had been on the ground while Vanderveen worked on the Imperator—so the next fifteen minutes were spent exchanging information until both were up-to-date. “So,” the bearded official concluded, having checked to ensure that no one was listening, “tonight’s the night.”

  Vanderveen raised an eyebrow. “Tonight’s the night for what?”

  “For Batkin,” Calisco said conspiratorially. “As luck would have it, Tragg left a navy robo tech here on the ground when he took the rest of you up into orbit. We scavenged bits of wire here and there and stole parts from incoming cargo modules. The tech took what we gave her, cobbled it all together, and got Batkin up and running again. He can fly!”

  “Damn!” Vanderveen enthused. “That’s wonderful. . . . Congratulations.”

  “Yes, it is good news isn’t it?” Calisco commented contentedly. “With Batkin on the other side of the fence, who knows what we can accomplish? But first we need to get him out of here, and that’s where the suicide comes in.”

  Vanderveen’s eyes widened. “Someone’s going to commit suicide?”

  Calisco nodded. “Yeah. . . . Petty Officer Kirko is still up and around—but the doc says he has a terminal disease. So just after sundown, Kirko’s going to attack one of the guards at the east end of the camp. Then, while the Ramanthians are busy killing him, Batkin will cross the fence. Slick, huh?”

  The way Calisco explained it sounded so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion, that had someone from off-planet been able to hear the conversation, they might have concluded that the official with the bright eyes and the deeply tanned face was a cold-blooded monster.

  But Vanderveen knew better. The prisoners had to fight with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on, and if that meant taking advantage of Kirko’s inevitable death, then so be it. Because if they could put Batkin on the other side of the electrified fence, where the cyborg would be free to roam, then an important battle would have been won. But there was a potential problem. A serious one. “What about reprisals?” the FSO wanted to know.

  Calisco shrugged. “We’re hoping there won’t be any. . . . Not if Kirko can get himself killed without harming one of the guards. But if there are reprisals, it will still be worth it.”

  Vanderveen looked away. “Is Batkin aware of all this?”

  Calisco shook his head. “Hell no. . . . He knows there’s going to be a diversion but nothing more.”

  The diplomat nodded understandingly. “That makes sense. He might refuse if he knew. So, what now?”

  “It’s time to say good-bye to Kirko,” the official announced solemnly. “And wish him God’s speed.”

  No matter how long she lived, Vanderveen knew she would never forget the on-again, off-again line of POWs that straggled through Kirko’s barracks. Each paused to offer the petty officer a few words of prayer or a gruff joke as they said their good-byes.

  Vanderveen didn’t want to cry, promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but the tears came anyway. Kirko was obviously in pain but managed a smile nonetheless and offered words of comfort. Which, coming from the man who was about to die, were backwards somehow. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Kirko said kindly. “I know my messmates are waiting for me—and they’ll show me the ropes.”

  By the time the good-byes were over, darkness was beginning to fall, and Batkin was nervous. And there was plenty to be nervous about since there hadn’t been any opportunity to test the makeshift repairs outside the four walls of the barracks. But the alternative, which was to hide under the floorboards until his power ran out, wasn’t that attractive. Besides, the spy had a job to do, and remained determined to do it.

  So Batkin remained where he was, with two marines to keep him company, until a very brave petty officer picked up a rock and threw it at one of the Ramanthian guards. The ensuing burst of gunfire, followed by the urgent bleat of a Klaxon, and a whole lot of yelling was Batkin’s cue to fire his repellers, ease his way out into the cool night air, and make straight for the fence.

  The spy waited for the cry of alarm, and another burst of gunfire, but nothing happened as he cleared the top of the electrified barrier and sped toward the jungle. The trees welcomed the cyborg back, the darkness took him in, and Batkin was free.

  12

  There is no way to know what archeological treasures lie hidden beneath the surface of planets like Jericho—or what knowledge will be lost if the planet falls into the wrong hands.

  —Hibeth Norroki

  Turr academic

  Standard year 2743

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Within seconds of exiting hyperspace the Solar Eclipse was challenged by a Ramanthian traffic control officer and two Sting Class patrol vessels were dispatched to intercept her. But thanks to information provided by agent Oliver Batkin, the ship’s Thraki pilots were not only familiar with in-system arrival protocols, they had the latest recognition codes as well—meaning anything less than six months old. That vulnerability would be eliminated once all ships were equipped with hypercom sets, but that day was off in the future.

  So that, plus the reassuring sight of some Thraki faces, put all Ramanthian fears to rest as the patrol boats turned away, and the Solar Eclipse entered orbit. Meanwhile, down in the main hold, twenty-one specially modified drop pods were loaded and ready to be ejected once the ship was in position. Sixteen of the capsules contained one cyborg and one bio bod each, plus a thousand pounds of food, ammo, and other gear required to support them on the ground. The remaining pods carried RAVs, each of which was loaded with additional supplies.

  The problem was that unlike military drop ships, which were equipped to jettison up to thirty-six pods at once, the Solar Eclipse didn’t have drop tubes, which meant that Thraki crew members would have to push Team Zebra’s containers off the stern ramp two at a time. And no matter how quickly the mercenaries completed the task, the pods were going to hit Jericho’s surface miles apart, thereby forcing the legionnaires to waste precious time coming back together.

  But there was no way around it, so as a team of four space-suited crew members waited to propel the pods down the roller-equipped ramp, the beings sealed inside the entry vehicles continued to communicate with each other on a low-power, short-range com channel. Each egg-shaped container was pressurized and divided in half. That meant that as Santana stood on a compartment packed with supplies he was effectively face-to-face with his ten-foot-tall T-2, even though a well-padded partition served to separate them. The idea was to make sure that each two-person fire team hit the dirt together, thereby enhancing their chances of survival as well as their ability to engage the enemy within minutes of touchdown.

  But it was claustrophobic inside the module, and Santana was extremely conscious of the way the hull pressed in around him, so much so that DeCosta’s prayer came as a welcome distraction. And even though the platoon leader wasn’t a religious man there was no denying the beauty and power of the ancient words.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff,
they comfort me. . . .”

  And as the words went on, Santana’s thoughts turned to Vanderveen, and the very real possibility that he would see her soon. But what if he didn’t? What if it turned out that she was dead? That possibility brought a lump to the legionnaire’s throat as the prayer came to a close.

  “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”

  “After I kill every frigging bug on this planet,” squad leader Husulu Ibo-Da put in, his words serving to drown out DeCosta’s “Amen.”

  There was a chorus of laughter, and Santana couldn’t help but smile knowing that the response would drive DeCosta crazy, assuming the little bastard was sane to begin with. The major started to speak but was cut off for a second time as the Thraki pilot overrode him. And the words were familiar since Santana had been required to write them at DeCosta’s behest. “All personnel stand by for launch. . . . Check onboard nav functions and reset if necessary. . . . The ship is now in orbit. . . . Stand by for launch in thirty seconds. . . .”

  And so it went until Santana felt the pod start to move, followed by a sudden bout of nausea as the module fell clear of the argrav field, and the steering jets fired. Because there were thousands of pieces of space junk circling Jericho, the officer was fairly confident that the pods would be lost in among them. But if the Ramanthians took issue with the sudden appearance of twenty-one additional blips on their tracking screens, then the Solar Eclipse’s pilot would admit to dumping garbage and accept the inevitable tongue-lashing. Then, having delivered a cargo of delicacies that the Ramanthian command structure hadn’t ordered but was unlikely to refuse, the freighter would depart.

  In the meantime the computer-guided drop pods were following trajectories calculated to reinforce the impression that they, like the hundreds of other objects that entered the atmosphere each day, were about to burn up. Santana felt the pod begin to vibrate, and even though he couldn’t see the three-thousand-degree envelope of plasma flowing around him, he knew it was trying to find a way in through the capsule’s thermal protection system. And the officer could feel the heat start to build up inside the pod as the vehicle shook violently. The legionnaire chinned the intercom. “Snyder? How are you doing?”

  “I was taking a nap,” the cyborg lied. “Until you woke me up that is.”

  Santana laughed. “Sorry about that. . . . Go back to sleep.”

  And, had such a thing been possible, the next few minutes would have been the time to try. Because once the pod lost a sufficient amount of altitude, parachutes were deployed, and Santana felt a distinct jerk as the vehicle slowed. That was followed by a gentle swaying motion— and the sure knowledge that they would be on the ground soon.

  However, pod Bravo Two-Four, which carried bio bod Jamie Ott, and cyborg Bindi Jasper was in trouble. Both legionnaires felt a jerk, followed by continued free fall, as a buzzer began to sound. The NAVCOMP triggered the reserve chute, which turned into a streamer, as the capsule continued its plunge toward the jungle below. Ott took over at that point, fired all of the drop pod’s retros, and was still punching buttons as the vehicle hit the ground. There was no explosion, but the impact crater was fifty feet across, and at least fifteen feet deep.

  But the jungle had covered other secrets over the ages, thousands of them, and the force of the impact brought long dormant seeds to the surface, where the sunlight could find them. And even before the wreckage could cool, vines had already begun their slow-motion advance in from the margins of the newly created clearing to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

  The sudden loss of Ott and Jasper was immediately visible to the entire team as the Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system threw a revised TO chart up for the legionnaires to see. But there was no time to mourn for lost comrades as their pods hit the jungle’s topmost canopy of vegetation, where they paused for a fraction of a second before crashing through a second layer of foliage to land on whatever lay below. Which in Santana’s case was soft loam.

  The capsule bounced once, landed at something of an angle, and blew itself apart. Santana fell free, rolled into the shelter offered by a fallen tree, and brought his assault rifle up. Snyder broke out of what remained of the shell, shook off some loose pieces, and began to scan. If there was some sort of threat in the immediate area, the cyborg would find it.

  A variety of jungle smells filled the legionnaire’s nostrils as he came to his feet and eyeballed the data provided by the ITC. The good news was that there was no sign that a Ramanthian reaction force was on the way to intercept them, and all of the surviving pods had landed safely. The bad news was that Team Zebra was spread out along a twenty-mile-long axis. But DeCosta had a plan—which the impatient officer was quick to implement. “This is Zebra Six. . . . All team members will form on Bravo Six and myself. And let’s find those RAVs.... We’re going to need them. Over and out.”

  DeCosta’s reasoning was sound as Santana could see on his HUD. Because Bravo Six, which was to say Farnsworth, was closest to the coordinates where the POWs were being held. So it made sense for both the platoon leader and those fire teams closest to him to remain stationary, while the rest of the team hurried to catch up. The mission clock was running, and there was no way to shut it off.

  Now that Santana had a clear mental picture of how the company was deployed, it was time to look at the needs of his own platoon, and figure out how to link up with his legionnaires. Since Gomez and the rest of the first squad were north of his position, and therefore closer to the final objective, the platoon leader decided to remain stationary while he waited for Sergeant Ibo-Da and his squad to arrive from the south.

  A decision that was further justified by the fact that according to the topo map projected on the inside surface of the officer’s face shield, one of the RAVs was located only a half mile away. Which meant that he and Snyder could secure the robot while the second squad caught up. Having dragged the debris into the jungle and concealed it as best he could, Santana helped Snyder clamp the auxiliary supply module to her chest. With that accomplished, Santana sent two succinct radio messages. One to DeCosta, letting the major know what he planned to do, and the other to his squad leaders.

  Then it was time to climb up onto Snyder’s back and strap in. The T-2 could “see” the RAV on the topo map superimposed over her electronic vision, so there was no need for the bio bod to do anything other than duck branches and become more familiar with his environment as the cyborg carried him through the jungle.

  By that time the local residents had recovered from the violent manner in which the alien invaders had crashed through the upper regions of their largely green universe and were busy screeching, howling, and chittering at the ten-foot-tall, two-headed monster lumbering through their forest.

  Santana leaned backwards and let the harness accept his weight as he looked up through the sun-dappled foliage to patches of blue sky. Every once in a while it was possible to catch a glimpse of sleek bodies as they jumped from branch to branch and gibbered at each other.

  Water splashed up and away from Snyder’s blocky feet as she forded a shallow stream, made her way up the opposite bank, and followed a game trail into the forest. The RAV was right where it was supposed to be, standing near the remains of its pod, when the T-2 and bio bod entered the newly created clearing. The robot consisted of two eight-foot-long sections linked by an accordion-style joint and supported by four articulated legs. Though not intended for offensive purposes, each RAV was equipped with two forward-facing machine guns and a grenade launcher. Which, when integrated into a defensive perimeter, could be quite useful in repelling ground attacks.

  Having dismounted, and with the T-2 there to provide security, Santana gathered the pieces of the RAV’s specially designed pod together and carried them over to a natural depression, where he did what he could to hide them without killing any of the vegetation. And that was when the officer came across an empty meal pak with Ramanthian s
cript on it, plus more than two dozen pieces of broken shell, which suggested that whatever had once been inside the egg had hatched. That was interesting because the legionnaire had read all of Batkin’s reports at least three times, and therefore knew that thousands, if not millions of Ramanthian tricentennial eggs, had been transported to Jericho and “planted” by specially trained teams of civilians.

  A first, insofar as the experts knew, since it was believed that all of the previous megahatchings had taken place on Hive, where they had been responsible for social upheaval, prolonged warfare, and extended famines. Problems the Queen and her advisors were trying to avoid this time around. Santana put both the empty meal pak and a fragment of eggshell in his backpack and made a mental note to share both the artifacts and his conclusions with DeCosta.

  Sergeant Ibo-Da and the rest of his squad arrived shortly thereafter. Good-natured insults flew back and forth between the cyborgs, and Snyder gave as good as she got as the combined force left the clearing. Darby and Nacky had the point, followed by Santana on Snyder, the RAV, Shootstraight on Ichiyama, and Ibo-Da on Kappa. The last two had the drag position, which meant Kappa had to walk backwards much of the time in an effort to protect the column’s six.

  But there were no threats in the area. None the T-2s could detect anyway—as the huge cyborgs made their way north. There was something about the rhythmic motion of Snyder’s body, the comforting click, whine, thud of her gigantic footsteps, and the now-familiar scenery that made Santana sleepy. But it wasn’t until Darby’s voice came over the radio that the officer realized he’d been dozing. “This is Alpha Three-Four. . . . There’s a clearing up ahead— with a large corpse at the center of it. Six or seven dog-sized things were gnawing on the body but took off once we arrived. Over.”