When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  But no matter how moving the process might be, Vanderveen knew she could never forgive the atrocities that the bugs had committed and watched clear-eyed as the Ramanthians harvested their dead. You think that’s bad? the POW thought to herself. Well, just wait. . . . I may not live to see it. . . . But there’s more to come.

  Having completed the hike from the shallow lake to a point only two miles shy of Camp Enterprise, Santana and his company had gone into hiding. No easy thing to do where the ten-foot-tall cyborgs were concerned—and a task made even more difficult by the heat that radiated from their bodies.

  But unlike his dead predecessor, Santana was a cavalry officer and therefore more knowledgeable regarding what the borgs could and couldn’t do. He knew the T-2s could not only operate underwater, where their heat signatures would be concealed, but do so for days if necessary. So rather than hide them in the jungle, Santana followed a river down to a series of stair-stepped pools, where the cyborgs were ordered to submerge themselves. The officer knew that would be boring, but it would also be safe, and that had priority.

  Having hidden the most formidable part of the team where aerial patrols were very unlikely to find it, Santana was free to turn his attention to Camp Enterprise. Thanks to what Oliver Batkin had accomplished earlier, the cavalry officer already had an excellent idea of how the compound was laid out. But time had passed since the cyborg’s escape from the POW camp, which meant things could have changed. Not to mention the fact that Santana was hungry for the sort of tactical minutiae the government spy had no reason to collect. Like the location of drainage ditches, the exact disposition of the POWs, how many could walk, the precise number of Ramanthian troops inside the wire, the size of the quick-reaction force stationed at the airstrip, how many shuttles were parked on the tarmac, where the power core was located, the status of the space elevator project, and much, much, more. All of which would have a bearing on the plan of attack.

  In order to gather the necessary intelligence, Santana planned to send Batkin forward during the cover of darkness in the hope that the cyborg would be able to penetrate the camp’s perimeter and collect useful information. Meanwhile, Noaim Shootstraight, Dimitri Bozakov, and Santana himself were to infiltrate the area with an eye to finding the best avenues of attack.

  Farnsworth took exception to that part of the plan, suggesting it was foolish for the commanding officer to take such risks, but his objections fell on deaf ears. Santana wanted to see the lay of the land with his own eyes, not just hear about it, so Farnsworth was left in command as the officer and his scouts disappeared into the jungle. All three were lightly dressed, carried a minimum amount of equipment, and wore green-and-black face paint.

  It was midafternoon when they left the riverbank and entered the sun-dappled world of the forest. The first thing Santana noticed was the almost complete absence of the raucous jungle sounds he had grown used to. In their place was the sound of his own breathing, the steady swish-swish of his pant legs as they rubbed against each other, and the occasional snap of a dry twig. Was their presence responsible for the change? Or was something else at hand? Unfortunately, there was no way to tell as the scouting party continued to weave its way between spindly vine-wrapped tree trunks.

  But as the threesome continued to advance, and paused every now and then to look and listen, Shootstraight became increasingly concerned. Because the legionnaire had an extremely acute sense of smell, and as a light breeze pushed its way in from the west, it brought something with it. A scent so faint the Naa wasn’t sure what it was, until the chittering sound began. “Nymphs!” Shootstraight said urgently. “Quick! Climb that tree. . . . It’s our only chance!”

  In spite of the fact that nothing had registered on his senses Santana had a great deal of faith in the Naa and reacted accordingly. Though not an experienced tree-climber, the officer was in good shape, and there were plenty of footholds. Not to mention vines to pull on, which made the ascent easier and helped the legionnaires make their way up to the point where five branches shot out like spokes in a wheel. That created a natural place to stop as the first wave of nymphs passed below.

  The officer half expected the juveniles to pause and look upwards. But judging from the way they moved, the juveniles had a specific destination in mind. Which, given the way they were headed, was the camp itself. That hypothesis proved accurate fifteen minutes later, when gunfire was heard, aerospace fighters roared over the treetops, and a series of ground attacks began. “Holy shit,” Bozakov said feelingly. “The little buggers are attacking their own kind!”

  “And being killed by them,” Santana observed.

  “What about the POWs?” Shootstraight wanted to know. “How will they fare?”

  “They’re inside the fence,” the officer replied optimistically. “So that should offer some protection.”

  The Naa wasn’t so sure, especially given the fact that the bugs could fly, but decided to keep his doubts to himself.

  The sounds of battle died away eventually, the sun went down, and there was a loud rustling as hundreds of nymphs retreated through the forest below chittering as they went. That was very frightening, especially since the bio bods couldn’t see and were so lightly armed. But while the juveniles were aware that protein things lived in the branches high above them, they also knew how elusive such creatures could be and made no attempt to scale the tree.

  Once the rustling noise died away, and usual night sounds began to reassert themselves, the scouts returned to the ground. Then, with Shootstraight in the lead, they continued the journey north. It was impossible to get lost because the swath of destruction created by the nymph army was like a superhighway that led straight to Camp Enterprise. Which, understandably enough, was very well lit.

  The lights were their cue to climb another tree and scope the compound from above, which Santana did with assistance from a pair of powerful light-gathering binos. That was when the officer saw the way the fence had been breached, the crews working feverishly to repair it, and the less obvious activity beyond. But even with the illumination provided by the pole-mounted floodlights it was difficult to make out the fine details of what was going on, so there was very little Santana and the other scouts could do but get some rest before the sun rose.

  It wasn’t easy, but having tied himself in place with some light cord, the officer eventually fell asleep. There were dreams, lots of them, and one face haunted them all. But Vanderveen was dead, as were his hopes, and all of the futures that might have been.

  Bozakov heard the officer mutter in his sleep and understood, because he had nightmares of his own, dreams so bad his squad mates had to wake him at times. But the bio bod knew it was important to let the officer rest. Because the entire team agreed that if there was any one individual who could get them off Jericho, that man was Captain Antonio Santana.

  16

  Wars are fought in many ways—and in many places.

  —Clone Ambassador Ishimoto-Seven Standard year 2840

  THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47)

  The Drac embassy consisted of a ten-story-tall block of windowless concrete that seemed to crouch between the high-rise buildings that rose all around it. But though not especially interesting to look at, the structure’s flat roof was the perfect place for VIPs to land and take off. And, given that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa qualified as such a person, his air car was immediately cleared for landing. There was a solid thump as Runwa Molo-Sa put the Hudathan-made vehicle down on the well-illuminated pad.

  Heavily armed Drac security officers hurried forward to meet the Hudathan dignitary and his aide as they stepped out onto the surface of the flat roof. The Dracs wore head-to-toe black pressure suits. And, because their faces were obscured by breathing masks, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. Not that Doma-Sa wanted to become better acquainted with the treacherous breed. Though officially neutral, it was well-known that the Drac Axis was at least psychologically aligned with the Ramanthians, which put t
hem in the same lowly category as the Thrakies insofar as Doma-Sa was concerned.

  But the methane breathers had a navy, and therefore the ability to project power, so it would be foolish to ignore them. Especially given the fact that Doma-Sa’s race had been forced to forgo having ships of their own in order to gain membership in the Confederacy and thereby escape their dying planet. Which had everything to do with Doma-Sa’s presence. Because if the triad could do or say anything that would help prevent the Dracs from actively entering the war on the Ramanthian side, then the pain-filled evening would be worth the sacrifice.

  Having confirmed that the Hudathans were invited guests, the seemingly interchangeable Dracs led the giants into a featureless elevator that fell so fast the 350-pound triad wondered if his feet would come up off the floor. The platform slowed quickly and coasted to a stop. The door opened onto a public area already crowded with partygoers. Most of the guests were Thrakies, which made sense, given that Starfall belonged to them. The rest of the crowd consisted of humans, a couple of Finthians, four exoskeleton-equipped Dwellers, and a handful of other aliens. They all stood around and pretended to like each other as they sipped, snorted, and siphoned intoxicating liquids into their bodies.

  Like the building’s exterior, the interior had a utilitarian feel, and because Dracs were color-blind, there was nothing to brighten the atmosphere. The human partygoers were sure to notice, but it was of little interest to Doma-Sa, who could perceive color but wasn’t especially interested in it.

  Being a head of state, as well as the Hudathan representative to the Confederacy, Doma-Sa was one of the highest-ranking individuals present and therefore in great demand. But rather than circulate, the way most diplomats did, the Hudathan put his back to a wall and allowed the ass-kissers, lie tellers, and social sycophants to come to him, which they quickly lined up to do. And, predictably enough, the topic everyone wanted to talk about was Marcott Nankool. Was the chief executive dead? Would Vice President Jakov assume the presidency? And if he did, how would that impact the war?

  The answers to such questions were obvious—or so it seemed to Doma-Sa. Yes, Nankool was probably dead. Yes, Jakov would assume the presidency. And yes, that would have an impact on the war. Because as with so many squats, the human politician was a spineless piece of dra, who would rush to cut a deal with the bugs so that dreamy-eyed elites on Earth could sleep better at night.

  But the triad knew there wasn’t any place for the truth in a roomful of liars, so he told everyone who asked that there was a very good chance that Nankool was still alive and might very well be rescued. Not because Doma-Sa was in love with what he often thought of as the Confederation of Stupid Beings, but because the Hudathan people would be vulnerable without a strong star-spanning government, and his first duty was to them.

  And that’s what the Hudathan was doing when his conversation with the Finthian ambassador came to a close, and the brightly plumed diplomat stepped away. The noise level in the room suddenly decreased as a female Ramanthian appeared in front of him. “This is the Egg Orno,” Molo-Sa said by way of introduction. “Mate to ex-ambassador Alway Orno—who was assassinated a few weeks ago.”

  The mention of the name, plus the relationship, took Doma-Sa back to the day when he and the Egg Orno’s other mate had faced off on the surface of Arballa. It had been hot that day, with high, puffy clouds that seemed to sail across a violet sky.

  There were rules against dueling aboard the orbiting Friendship—so the fight had been scheduled to take place on the arid planet below. No one lived on the surface of Arballa, least of all the wormlike Arballazanies, who dwelt deep underground.

  But everyone wanted to see the fight, so all manner of shuttles had been employed to ferry dozens of diplomats, politicians, and senior officials down to Arballa, where the would-be spectators were forced to don a variety of exotic breathing devices in order to move around on the planet’s inhospitable surface.

  By mutual agreement, a bowl-like depression had been chosen as the site of the contest. Horgo Orno entered the natural arena first. Doma-Sa remembered feeling the first stirrings of fear as the Ramanthian stood there with his well-oiled chitin gleaming in the sun. And now, as the enormous Hudathan looked down into the Egg Orno’s shiny eyes, he suspected that the female was frightened but still had the courage to face him. The question was why.

  The Egg Orno had been on Hive the day that her beloved Horgo fought the big ugly Hudathan. So this was the first time she had seen him. The alien had a large humanoid head, a low-lying dorsal fin that ran front to back along the top of his skull, and funnel-shaped ears. His skin was gray, but would turn white if the temperature were to drop, and black were it to rise. “It’s an honor to meet you,” Doma-Sa said gravely. “However, I would be lying if I told you that I regret the ex-ambassador’s death. Or that of your other mate, although he fought bravely and died a warrior’s death. Of that you can be proud.”

  The Hudathan had been truthful, and the Egg Orno was strangely grateful for that. “Thank you, Excellency,” the Ramanthian replied gravely. “Both for your honesty and the words of respect for Horgo. But I’m not here to discuss the way my mates died but to avenge them.”

  Those words were enough to bring Molo-Sa forward to shield Doma-Sa’s body with his own. But the triad put out a hand to restrain him. “Thank you,” the Hudathan said gratefully. “But I don’t believe the Egg Orno will attack me.”

  “No,” the Ramanthian agreed. “I won’t. . . . Although I would if I could. I’m here to discuss the relationship between the late ambassador and the Jakov administration. Which, if I’m not mistaken, will be of considerable interest to you.”

  That alone was sufficient to start a buzz of conversation, and Doma-Sa knew better than to hold what could be a sensitive discussion in a public place. “That sounds interesting,” the triad responded noncommittally. “Would you be available to talk about it in an hour or so? Or would you like to make an appointment for another day?”

  “This evening would be fine,” the Egg Orno replied gratefully. “Please let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

  “We will,” Doma-Sa assured her. “And one more thing . . .”

  The Egg Orno looked up at him. “Yes?”

  “I meant what I said about the War Orno, but I had no desire to hurt you, and I’m sorry that I did.”

  There was a long moment of silence during which the beginning of a strange bond began to form. And after they left the party, and spent more than two hours talking within the security of the Hudathan embassy, the bond grew even stronger. That was something that might well have been of interest to both Vice President Leo Jakov and the Ramanthian Queen. Had either been aware of it.

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  The funeral pyres crackled as the orange-red flames rose to enfold the dead nymphs, and the rich, fatty odor of cooked meat filled the air, as six columns of black smoke rose to stain an otherwise-pristine blue sky. Efforts to repair the security fence were still under way, and Ramanthian outposts all around the camp remained on high alert, as Maximillian Tragg crossed the compound to the administration building. There was no way to know exactly why he had been summoned, but the overseer assumed the Mutuus were going to assign more of the reconstruction work to the POWs. That was fine with the renegade because the prisoners were easier to control when they were busy.

  As Tragg approached the headquarters building, he noticed that four Ramanthian troopers had been posted outside the front door rather than two as in the past—one of many changes resulting from the nymph attack. The human had to surrender his weapons and remove his boots before being allowed to enter the richly decorated throne room. It was a ritual the renegade had performed dozens of times before. Except this time there was something different in the air, a tension that could be seen in the way that the impeccably dressed commandant held himself, the fact that the War Mutuu’s sword was symbolically unsheathed, and the presence of six heavily armed soldiers
. All because of the nymphs? Or was there another reason as well? The mercenary felt cold lead trickle into his stomach. Tragg lowered his eyes and bowed respectfully. “Greetings, Excellencies—”

  That was as far as the renegade got when a baton struck him across the kidneys. The pain was excruciating, and he went down hard. “Don’t strike the animal’s head, and don’t break any of his bones,” the War Mutuu instructed as the blows continued to fall. Tragg had curled up into a ball by that time, with his arms around his head, as the troopers continued to beat him. It hurt, but the renegade knew more about pain than they did and had a tolerance for it. So he took comfort from the orders that the War Mutuu had given and waited for the assault to end.

  “That’s enough,” the commandant said, after what felt like an hour but was actually no more than fifteen seconds. “Help him up.”

  It felt as if every bone in his body had been broken as the Ramanthians lifted Tragg up off the floor. But that wasn’t the case, and even though the renegade’s knees were a bit weak, his legs were strong enough to support his weight.

  “Now, having been punished, the animal wants to know why,” Commandant Mutuu said coldly. “The answer is simple. . . . Thanks to our brilliant scientists, a faster-than-light communications device has come into being, which means officials on Hive can communicate with planets like Jericho in real time. Such calls are rare, however. . . . So, imagine our surprise when Chancellor Ubatha called to inform us that a very special guest is staying here at Camp Enterprise. A person you chose to protect or, even worse, were so negligent as to overlook. Which is why you were punished.”