When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Nankool felt his spirits soar as an assault weapon rattled outside. “That’s wonderful!”

  “It’s good,” Batkin allowed cautiously, “but something short of wonderful.”

  The president frowned. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s a long story, Mr. President,” the spy replied wearily. “But suffice it to say that the naval units that were supposed to pick us up are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were intercepted—or maybe the mission was canceled. We’re screwed either way. Still, the officer in command of the mission knows his stuff, so let’s get you out of here. . . . Please keep your head down. It would be a shame to lose it at this point.”

  The long, silvery space elevator pointed at Maximillian Tragg as the renegade ran for his life. The overcast had begun to burn away by then, revealing white streaks left by high-flying Ramanthian fighters and the blue sky beyond. The aircraft had been on standby thus far but would go into action the moment that the Confederacy Navy appeared. It was just one of many factors Tragg would be forced to take into account as he sought a way off Jericho.

  That was why the overseer was jogging toward the airstrip, in hopes of finding a way off the planet’s surface, when a shoulder-launched missile struck a Sheen robot. The resulting shock wave was powerful enough to knock Tragg off his feet. Which was just as well, because a second rocket was already on its way, and blew the remaining android to smithereens. Sharp pieces of shrapnel flew in every direction and might have killed the human had he been standing.

  Watkins felt a sense of satisfaction as he dropped the launcher and began to advance on his intended victim. Two of the silvery remotes continued to hover above and behind Tragg, but the Ramanthian-made machines were a lot less formidable than the Sheen robots had been, and one of them went down as the cyborg fired the assault weapon he carried. “Stand up, you bastard!” the media specialist ordered, “So I can look into your eyes while I shoot you down!”

  Tragg was confused as he came to his feet. Not only had he never seen his assailant before, but the man wasn’t wearing a uniform, so who the hell was he? That didn’t prevent the renegade from firing one of his pistols at the stranger however.

  Watkins staggered as the slugs slammed into his body armor, laughed out loud, and continued to advance as Tragg tried for a head shot and missed. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” the media specialist demanded, as a shuttle lifted from the airstrip to the north. “I’m the one who burned my signature into your ugly face!”

  Tragg looked at the man and looked again. Marci’s brother? No, that was impossible! Yet who else would say something like that? The renegade lowered the pistol. “Watkins?” he inquired unbelievingly. “Is that you?”

  “It sure as hell is,” the cyborg replied grimly. “So get ready to die.”

  “Let me see if I understand,” the overseer said as he began to stall for time. “You survived the fight on Long Jump and followed me here, all because of Marci? You are a fool. But I’m glad you came, because that will give me the opportunity to kill you all over again, and do it right this time!”

  Watkins raised the assault weapon, placed his finger on the trigger, and was just about to fire when the remaining monitor came within range. The robot had very little in the way of armament but a single shot from the machine’s stun gun was sufficient to paralyze what remained of the cyborg’s nervous system. And without instructions to the contrary—his electromechanical joints buckled and he dropped to his knees. The assault weapon clattered as it hit the ground, and Watkins collapsed facedown in the dirt.

  Meanwhile there was a roar of sound as a Ramanthian aerospace fighter came in low over the camp, released a stick of bombs, and screamed away. The ground shook as a series of overlapping explosions merged into a single uninterrupted CARRRUUUMP. Geysers of dirt shot up into the air, took half a dozen bodies along with them, and fell back down again. It was impossible for Tragg to know which side was winning, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was the passage of time. So when the renegade went to flip the cyborg over, he was in a hurry.

  Watkins “felt” a boot hook under his body and roll it over. A halo of blue sky surrounded his brother-in-law’s head. The cyborg ordered his body to respond, to do something, but there was no reaction. “So, shithead,” Tragg said contemptuously, as he pointed the pistol downwards. “I assume Marci’s dead by now—so say hello to the silly bitch for me.’ ”

  Watkins saw a flash of light, felt a sense of release, and knew he had failed.

  With both of the Mutuus dead, along with most of the camp’s defenders, Team Zebra owned the cratered landscape. But without a way to escape, and under continual attack from above, it was a pyrrhic victory. Which was why Santana, Nankool, and a few others were huddled at the bottom of a bomb crater trying to come up with a plan as the airstrikes continued. “It doesn’t matter why the navy isn’t here,” Santana said pragmatically. “What we need to do is find a way off this planet. How about the shuttles at the airfield?” he inquired hopefully.

  Technically, Commander Peet Schell outranked the legionnaire, but lacked the skills to fight a ground action and knew it. He was an expert on spaceships, however, and was quick to weigh in as another fighter began its run. “I’m sorry, Captain, but we wouldn’t get far. Not without some sort of hyperdrive.”

  “Maybe we could use the shuttles to hijack one of the ships in orbit,” Lieutenant Farnsworth suggested. “They have hyperdrives.”

  “Yes, they do,” the heavily bearded naval officer agreed. “But a successful hijack attempt would require the element of surprise. And once we steal a couple of shuttles, the Ramanthians would be expecting us to attack the orbiting ships.”

  “That’s true,” Nankool said, as he spoke for the first time. “But what about the Imperator?”

  Schell frowned. “She has a hyperdrive,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s true. . . . But what about the space elevator? It’s like a twenty-three-thousand-mile-long anchor chain.”

  “Could we cut it?” Santana wanted to know. “Because the bugs wouldn’t expect something like that.”

  “No,” Schell replied, as a steadily growing sense of excitement began to grip him. “They sure as hell wouldn’t! And yes, assuming you have some explosives, we can cut it. Which I would enjoy a great deal.”

  “Can we ride the space elevator up?” Farnsworth wanted to know. “Why steal shuttles if we don’t have to?”

  “No, the elevator was designed to bring a whole lot of tonnage down to the surface in a short period of time,” the naval officer answered. “But that’s okay. My people can fly anything. . . . And that includes Ramanthian shuttles. So, let’s go!”

  It was a crazy plan, an insane plan, but anything was better than sitting in the ruins of Camp Enterprise waiting to die. So Santana sent Farnsworth plus a squad of war forms off to the airfield. Two pilots were assigned to go with them—and help secure two Ramanthian shuttles.

  Once they were gone, the legionnaire worked with the surviving noncoms to organize an evacuation. Most of the sickest POWs had been killed when the dispensary was destroyed, but even the so-called healthy prisoners were weak, and some had been wounded. So the most critical patients were put aboard the RAVs, which could handle two people each, while those like Vanderveen were loaded onto makeshift stretchers. The rest were forced to walk. That meant that the entire column was vulnerable to air attack as the POWs and their would-be rescuers emerged from hiding to walk, limp, and in some cases hop toward the airfield.

  It didn’t matter where Santana was. Not at that particular moment, so the officer chose to stay with Vanderveen as a pair of fighters circled the camp and prepared to attack the POWs. So when the diplomat opened her eyes, it was the legionnaire she saw, walking at her side. Santana turned to look down at her, saw that her eyes were open, and took hold of her right hand. That hurt, but Vanderveen didn’t care, as the Ramanthian planes strafed the slowly twisting column.

  But there was a price to be paid for attacking
the war forms, as one of the Ramanthian pilots found out when a heat-seeking missile entered his port air intake and exploded. The fighter came apart in midair, was consumed by an orange-red fireball, and transformed into metal confetti.

  Santana saw spurts of dust shoot up as pieces of debris landed around them and gave silent thanks as the badly mauled column made its way out onto the tarmac. “Pick up the pace!” he shouted. “Get in among those shuttles before the fighters make another run!” There were four atmosphere-scarred shuttles parked next to the airstrip, and it was the legionnaire’s hope that the Ramanthian pilots would be reluctant to fire on them. The POWs responded as best they could, and the occasional rattle of gunfire was heard as Farnsworth and his detachment continued to mop up what remained of the airfield’s security detail.

  It wasn’t long before the cavalry officer spotted Watkins and went over to kneel beside the body. The cyborg was lying on his back, staring sightlessly up at the sun, with a blue-edged hole between his eyes. Tragg, Santana thought to himself. The bastard is alive.

  And as if to prove the officer’s conclusion, there was a sudden burst of gunfire as one of the previously quiescent shuttles suddenly came to life and lifted off its skids. The copilot’s saddle-style seat was too uncomfortable to sit on, so Tragg had been forced to crouch next to the Ramanthian pilot. He aimed the gun at the bug’s head as a hail of bullets flattened themselves against the fuselage. “If I die, then you die, asshole. So get me out of here.”

  Having seen his copilot gunned down in cold blood, the alien took the threat seriously and applied additional power. Thrusters roared as the shuttle gained speed and took to the air. The hard part was over, or so it seemed to Tragg, as Jericho’s surface fell away. Thraki ships were in orbit, or so he assumed, and the furballs would do just about anything for money. And, thanks to the heavy money belt strapped around the renegade’s waist, he could afford to pay. It was chancy, but Tragg was a gambler and always willing to place a bet. Especially on himself.

  18

  Never give up hope! Because when all seems lost, a hero will appear, and lead the way.

  —Looklong Spiritsee

  A Book of Visions

  Standard year 1967

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Dark gray smoke billowed up from what had been Camp Enterprise, a muffled explosion was heard as flames found their way into the armory, and engines screamed as a shuttle clawed its way into the sky. Santana had no way to know who was aboard, but assumed some of the Ramanthians were making a run for it, and he swore bitterly. Because the combined force of rescuers and POWs were going to require two shuttles, and only two remained. “Speak to me, Bravo Six,” the officer said into his lip mike. “And tell me that the rest of those ships are secure. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Lieutenant Farnsworth replied. “We weren’t able to capture any Ramanthian pilots—but the swabbies claim they can fly these things. Over.”

  “I sure hope they’re right,” Santana responded, as the tail end of the column passed by. “It’s my guess that the fighters will receive permission to fire on the shuttles any moment now, so load them quickly. Over.”

  “I’m on it,” Farnsworth replied. “My platoon will provide security until all of the POWs have boarded. Out.”

  Conscious of how precious each passing second was, Santana threw himself into the process of getting the POWs onto the shuttles. For a while it seemed as if the officer was everywhere, shouting encouragement and lending a hand whenever one was needed. Vanderveen could hear him even though she was strapped to a stretcher and took pleasure in the sound of his voice. Then Santana was there kneeling beside her and checking the straps that would hold the diplomat in place once the ship was airborne. The officer smiled. “I went to your home, but you stood me up.”

  Vanderveen looked up into his eyes. “I know I did— and I’m very sorry. Did you get my note?”

  Santana nodded soberly. “Your mother gave it to me.”

  “Were you angry?”

  “No,” the officer replied honestly. “But I was disappointed. You owe me.”

  “Yes,” Vanderveen agreed, as tears began to well up in her eyes. “I do. We all do.”

  She would have said more, wanted to say more, but that was when Commander Schell came into view. If he thought the tête-à-tête was strange, he kept his opinions to himself. “We’re ready, Captain. . . . Or as ready as we’re likely to be.”

  That was when Santana felt the vibration beneath his boots and realized the shuttle’s engines were running. “I’m glad to hear it, sir. Let’s load the rest of my team and get the hell out of here.”

  Schell grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

  An additional five minutes were required to get Farnsworth and his people aboard the other shuttle and strap everyone in. Santana stood at the top of the ramp as the last T-2 lumbered aboard Ship 1. And, when he lowered his visor to get a look at the heads-up display, the officer was shocked by what he saw. More than half of his thirty-person team had been killed on the surface of Jericho. The knowledge was sufficient to dampen any sense of jubilation the legionnaire might otherwise have felt as the ramp came up, and the shuttle wobbled into the air. It wasn’t easy for the navy pilot to manipulate the strange knob-style controls at first, but she soon caught on, and it wasn’t long before the ship began to gain altitude.

  “Well done!” President Nankool said heartily as he appeared at Santana’s elbow.

  “Thank you, sir,” the legionnaire replied as he reached up to grab a support. “I’m sorry it took so long—and I’ll be damned if I know where the pickup ships are.”

  “Batkin filled me in on the political aspect of this,” Nankool said bleakly. “And it’s my guess that the mission was canceled. But that’s for later. We have a battleship to steal first!”

  There was something infectious about the chief executive’s cheerful optimism, and it gave Santana an insight into how Nankool had been so successful in the past and why Vanderveen believed in him. Before the cavalry officer could agree, however, both men were thrown to the deck as the pilot put the shuttle into a tight right-hand turn. “Sorry about that!” a female voice said tightly. “But the bugs want to play. . . . So, hang on to your hats!”

  Santana didn’t have a hat, but he had a helmet, which he clutched under one arm as he helped Nankool crawl over to a bulkhead where one of the more able-bodied POWs helped strap the chief executive down. And just in time, too, as the shuttle banked the opposite way and shook as it passed through the turbulence created by a Ramanthian fighter. And so began an airborne game of cat and mouse as the Ramanthians attempted to shoot the hijacked shuttles down while the humans sought to clear the atmosphere, knowing that the conventional aircraft wouldn’t be able to follow. Of course space-going fighters might very well attack the moment they entered space, but that couldn’t be helped, and the pilots could only cope with one problem at a time.

  And it wasn’t easy, especially for Lieutenant Jerry Woda, who was flying Ship 2. Partly because of the unfamiliar controls but mostly because of a bad engine, which explained why crude staging had been positioned next to the ship when the legionnaires took possession of it. And that pissed the pilot off because both he and the other POWs had been through a lot and didn’t deserve to die. But deserving or not it soon became clear that they were going to die as a fighter locked on to the ship’s tail and began to fire its energy cannons. “Okay,” Woda said, as blips of blue energy tore past the control compartment. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance.”

  There was only one way the uneven contest could end. That’s what all three of the Ramanthian fighter pilots believed as they took turns shooting at the severely under-powered shuttle. And they were correct, or mostly correct, as Woda put Ship 2 into an extremely tight turn. Suddenly two of the enemy pilots found themselves rushing straight at the unarmed shuttle at a combined speed of eight hundred miles per hour. There was time, but not very much, as Woda steered Ship 2 strai
ght at one of his pursuers. “I’m sorry,” the pilot said over the intercom. “But at least we’re going to take one of the ugly bastards with us!”

  There was no opportunity for the POWs and the legionnaires to react as both aircraft merged into a communal ball of fire. But they would have approved, especially as a second fighter ran into the fiery debris and sucked a chunk of metal into its engine. The resulting explosion was visible from many miles away but didn’t mean much to the nymphs who witnessed it from below. Because all they felt was an abiding hunger—and the momentary roll of thunder was soon forgotten.

  Everyone aboard Ship 1 had experienced weightlessness before, and welcomed it, because they knew that conventional aircraft couldn’t follow them into the vacuum of space. Not that they were safe given the fact that any warship larger than a patrol boat was sure to carry fighters designed for combat outside planetary atmospheres. But how would such units be deployed? Santana wondered. Would they be ordered to attack the stolen shuttles? Or kept close in order to protect whatever ship they belonged to? Because the bugs had every reason to expect a Confederacy task force to drop hyper. The legionnaire’s thoughts were interrupted by the pilot’s voice.

  “This is Lieutenant Tanaka,” she said somberly. “I’m sorry to announce the loss of Ship 2 and all those aboard. They took two fighters with them, however—and allowed us to clear the atmosphere. Our ETA aboard the Imperator is fifteen minutes. There are no fighters on the way as yet. . . . More when I have it.”

  Farnsworth and fully half of the company’s surviving team members had been aboard the other shuttle, so the announcement hit Santana like a blow to the gut. But it was important to try and neutralize the emotional impact associated with the loss and get ready for what lay ahead. The legionnaire freed himself from the tie-downs and made his way out to the center of the cargo compartment. The running dialogue was intended to distract the mixed force of sailors and legionnaires from the loss of Ship 2 and focus their minds on the task ahead. “Okay,” Santana said. “If you don’t have a weapon, and you’re healthy enough to fight, then draw one from Sergeant Ibo-Da. And remember . . . There are some very good reasons why boarding parties rarely use projectile weapons. Like the possibility that you might destroy the very thing that you’re trying to capture. So be careful with those slug throwers.