When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

“I’m building my own organization within General Booly’s staff one transfer at a time. . . . Eventually, after the massacre on Jericho, I’ll force the bastard into retirement. In the meantime, I’m learning all sorts of interesting things about what the general and his cronies have been up to. Watch this.”

  As Wilmot looked on, a holo blossomed over the foot of the bed and a legionnaire appeared. The soldier wore a hood to hide his face and his voice had been electronically altered to protect his identity. What light there was came from above. “Rather than wait for authorization from the vice president, offi?cers acting on orders from a secret cabal of politicians, senior offi?cials, and the Military Chief of Staff, are working to recruit and train a special ops team for the purpose of landing on Jericho,” the informant reported. “Where, if the mission is successful, they plan to rescue President Nankool.”

  “Which supports what I’ve been saying,” Wilmot put in, as the image exploded into a thousand motes of light.

  “Dozens of people including your informant know Nankool is alive. That will leak eventually. . . . Especially if the Nankool supporters become suffi?ciently frustrated. So let them send their mission, knowing it will most likely be intercepted by the Ramanthians or land only to discover that all the POWs have been killed. Including the president.”

  The suggestion made sense, a lot of sense, especially since there would be no need to reveal the extent to which the secret cabal had been compromised. “You are not only beautiful, but brilliant,” Jakov said, as he pulled Wilmot close. “It shall be as you say.”

  Wilmot should have felt a sense of pleasure, because here was the power that she had sought for so long, even if her role was somewhat obscured. But for some reason the diplomat’s skin was cold—and Jakov’s embrace did nothing to warm it.

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Oliver Batkin felt the bullet rip through his electromechanical body and knew he was injured as the beam of light washed across Tragg’s metal roof. But the cyborg was far from defenseless. As the guards learned when the sphere burped blue light, and the tower they were fi?ring from took a direct hit. One of the structure’s four legs was severed, and even as their minds worked to assimilate that piece of information, a horrible creaking noise was heard. That was followed by a loud crack as a second support broke under the increased strain, and a chorus of Ramanthian screams, as the entire tower began to topple. It landed with a crash, broke into a dozen pieces, and sent splinters of dagger-sharp wood scything through the air. One of them took the sergeant of the guard’s head off and sent gouts of blood shooting upwards before his body collapsed. With no information to go on, the guards in the surviving towers quite naturally assumed that the prisoners were involved somehow, and aimed their searchlights at the electrifi?ed fence, where they expected to witness an escape attempt. Meanwhile, Batkin took advantage of the confusion to lift off, but hadn’t fl?own more than a hundred feet when his main repeller failed. Fortunately, the cyborg wasn’t very high at the time—and the mud cushioned his fall.

  But the same Sheen robot that had alerted the guards to the cyborg’s presence in the fi?rst place was closing in on Batkin. It fi?red as it came. Thankfully, the alien machine’s armor was no match for the spy’s energy cannon, and the robot fl?ew apart as a blue bolt struck its chest. That was when two quick-thinking marines emerged from the surrounding darkness. “What the hell is it?” one of them wanted to know.

  “I’m a Confederacy cyborg!” Batkin announced desperately. “And I have important information for your superiors. Can you hide me?”

  “Holy shit,” the fi?rst marine said uncertainly. “Let’s fi?nd the sarge and ask him what to do.”

  “We ain’t got time for that,” the second jarhead replied pragmatically. “The bugs are going to be all over this area ten minutes from now! Let’s put him in the supply locker.”

  Batkin didn’t know what “the supply locker” was, but soon found out, as he was transported into a prefab barracks and placed on the fl?oor. The rest of the grunts assigned to that particular building were outside trying to fi?gure out what was going on, so the long, narrow room was empty. Lights swept across the outside walls, and alarms continued to bleat, as the marines pried up a section of fl?ooring and set it off to one side. Thirty seconds later the cyborg was lowered into a rectangular hole that was already half-full of stolen tools and other supplies that the marines had been able to scrounge from the camp. A wooden lid was lowered into place after that, dirt was raked over the top, and the precut section of fl?oorboards was lowered back into place.

  With no exterior light, and nothing to hear other than the occasional indecipherable thump, Batkin was left to wait in what might be his grave. Especially were something to happen to the marines. But rather than focus on things like that, the cyborg triggered a diagnostic program. The results served to confi?rm his worst fears. His propulsion system had been severely damaged—and the nearest repair facility was more than a thousand lightyears away. Meanwhile, up on the surface, and outside the barracks, the entire camp was in an uproar as Commandant Mutuu, the War Mutuu, and Overseer Tragg all marched about shouting orders. There had been an escape attempt, or that’s what they assumed, so the POWs were ordered to stand in formation for a head count.

  Then, when it turned out that all of the prisoners were present, or accounted for, another head count was called for as Tragg and the surviving robots walked the perimeter and inspected the fence. But the second head count was consistent with the fi?rst, and there were no signs of an escape attempt.

  That led the Mutuus to conclude that some sort of ex149

  ternal force had been at work—a theory corroborated by the use of an energy weapon. Hastily convened combat teams were dispatched to sweep the surrounding jungle for any sign of an incursion, and the entire camp was subjected to a thorough search, even as the commandant continued to heap abuse on the prisoners.

  The entire process lasted for more than eight hours, so that when the sun fi?nally reemerged over the eastern horizon, all of the POWs were still on their feet. Those who were ill, or too exhausted to remain vertical without assistance, were held upright lest they attract the wrong sort of attention.

  Like those around her, Vanderveen was exhausted—so tired that she found herself drifting off to sleep at times. Short periods during which the diplomat was magically transported to other planets, and during one especially pleasant interlude on LaNor, found herself wrapped in Antonio Santana’s arms. But that brief moment of pleasure came to an end when President Nankool elbowed her ribs.

  “Christina!” the chief executive hissed. “Wake up!”

  The foreign service offi?cer brought her head up, forced her eyes to open, and soon wished she hadn’t as the mass punishments began. Because in Commandant Mutuu’s eyes, the prisoners, those who had destroyed his guard tower, and the Confederacy of Sentient Beings were all part of the same evil organism.

  This philosophy was explained to the assembled multitude by no less a personage than Mutuu himself, as his sword-wielding mate made his way through the ranks of ragged prisoners and chose those who were about to die according to criteria known only to him.

  Vanderveen felt her stomach muscles tighten as the Ramanthian made his way down her row, ignored Nankool, and paused directly in front of her. Was this it? the diplomat wondered. And, all things considered, would death come as a welcome relief? Perhaps that was why the human drew herself up and looked the War Mutuu right in one of his space black eyes as the bug’s antennae turned this way and that. But, for reasons known only to the Ramanthian, it wasn’t Vanderveen’s day to die. Nor any other member of the LG, although Schell came close when the naval offi?cer tried to intercede on behalf of his sailors and marines. Nine out of the ten individuals selected for punishment made their way to the front of the formation under their own power, accepted the shovels that were handed to them, and began to dig. Only one man, a sick sailor, tried to resist. He screamed, fl?ailed about, and was s
ummarily shot. Then, with the same calm demeanor demonstrated earlier, the War Mutuu selected another victim, who was led up front to join the rest.

  What made the moment especially poignant for Nankool was the fact that not one of those selected for execution attempted to obtain leniency by revealing the president’s identity. Tears streamed down the chief executive’s face, and at one point he made as if to go forward and join the men and women who were digging the communal grave, only to have Vanderveen and Calisco hold him back. It took the better part of an hour for the ten prisoners to dig a hole large enough to contain all of their bodies. Then, having been lined up with their backs to the mass grave, the POWs came to attention, and remained in that position, as the War Mutuu shuffl?ed past and shot each one of them in the head. The bodies fell backwards, dead eyes staring up at an alien sky, as they landed side by side. Vanderveen forced herself to look, to burn the moment into her memory, so that she would never forget. Then it was over, the markerless grave was fi?lled in, and the work day began. A seemingly endless stretch of time in which Vanderveen and her companions stumbled from one task to the next like slow-motion zombies. Finally, after what seemed like a day spent in hell, the POWs were released. All Vanderveen wanted to do was eat, fall facedown on her grubby pallet, and drop into a dreamless sleep.

  But even that small pleasure was denied her because just as the diplomat joined the chow line, she was immediately called away. It seemed that the LG was about to hold what the word-walker called, “A special session,”

  which left the foreign service offi?cer with no choice but to attend.

  As Vanderveen approached barracks nine, she saw that extra guards had been posted all around the structure. They didn’t look like guards, since the marines were seemingly occupied by a variety of routine chores, but all of them were ready to intervene should a Ramanthian guard or an airborne monitor enter the area. Then, while the guards did whatever was necessary to stall, the LG would have time to break off their meeting and hide anything that might be incriminating.

  But there were no signs of impending interference as the diplomat traded nods with the tough-looking noncom who sat cleaning his boots on the front steps and entered the building. Blankets had been hung over the windows, and the sun had started to set, so there wasn’t much light inside. What there was emanated from a single glow cone and served to frost the top of the large sphere that rested on the table at the center of the room. The construct was about four feet in diameter and nearly identical to the recon ball that Vanderveen had encountered during the fi?nal hours of the battle on LaNor.

  All of which caused the diplomat’s heart to leap since what she took to be a cyborg could be the fi?rst harbinger of help. Had one of the Confederacy’s battle groups dropped into orbit around Jericho? Yes! Vanderveen thought excitedly, and hurried to join the group gathered around the beat-up-looking sphere. Batkin was nearing the end of his narrative. “. . . At that point another prisoner entered, sat down, and began to talk. And it soon became obvious that he was ready to cut a deal with Tragg.”

  It wasn’t what Vanderveen had been hoping for, and she was about to ask a question when Hooks beat her to it.

  “This is ridiculous,” the offi?cial said contemptuously.

  “Why should we believe this nonsense? Assuming this individual is who he claims to be, then he’s massively incompetent! Ten, no eleven people are dead, due to his negligence.”

  “Maybe,” Nankool allowed cautiously, “and maybe not. Remember, Madame X works for me, and I know what she expects of her operatives. And she wouldn’t be very happy if one of them were to spend all his time waiting for information to come his way. She would argue that it was Batkin’s duty to enter the camp. Regardless of what might follow. Let’s hear the rest of what he has to say before arriving at any conclusions.”

  Hooks didn’t like the answer, but there wasn’t much the secretary could do except fume, as Batkin prepared to resume his narrative. A rather tricky moment, because the spy not only knew who Hooks was, but why the offi?cial wanted to preempt the report. “Why listen to my secondhand account,” Batkin inquired rhetorically, “when you can watch the real thing?”

  That was when a holo blossomed over the cyborg and the entire LG was treated to a shot of a man’s back with Tragg beyond. Hooks felt a moment of relief, but that emotion was short-lived as his voice was heard, and the rest of the group turned to stare at him. “I think the sonofabitch is going to run,” Batkin remarked mildly. However, Hooks was already in motion by then—and Vanderveen was the only person between the senior diplomat and the door.

  But if Hooks thought he could run the blond over and make a dash for Tragg’s prefab, he was sadly mistaken. Because rather than wait for the two-hundred-pound man to overpower her—the diplomat threw her body into the air and hit the offi?cial with what could only be described as a fl?ying tackle. Vanderveen had the breath knocked out of her as both of them crashed to the fl?oor.

  Hooks struggled to extricate himself, and was just about to do so, when Schell and Nankool got ahold of him. The traitorous offi?cial attempted to call for help at that point, but took a blow to the jaw and was soon subdued. Ironically, it was Calisco, the very man Vanderveen had been so suspicious of, who helped her up off the fl?oor. Batkin would have smiled had he been able to do so.

  “Where was I? Ah yes, the holo!” The recording reappeared at that point, giving everyone present the opportunity to hear Hooks cut his deal and see the turncoat’s face as he stood. Nankool was shocked. “Damn it, Roland . . . Why?”

  “Because you’re going to die anyway,” Hooks said dispiritedly. “Can’t you see that? Especially after today?”

  “What I see is a traitor,” Nankool answered coldly.

  “Yes, every single one of us may die here. . . . But who knows? Maybe one of Batkin’s message torps got through. Perhaps help will come. But regardless of that, we have a war to fi?ght—and we’re going to fi?ght it.”

  Schell frowned. “Sorry, sir. But I’m not sure I follow. We’re prisoners, so how can we fi?ght?”

  “The space elevator,” Nankool replied grimly. “The bugs need it—and we’re going to destroy it. But not until they have invested lots of time, work, and money in it.”

  There was a moment of silence after that, followed by grim laughter, as half a dozen POWs nodded in unison. Unlikely though it might seem, the prisoners had declared war on their captors, and the fi?rst battle had been won. It was about four hours later, when even Tragg was asleep, that something landed on the fence and the camp’s alarms went off. More than a dozen Ramanthian guards were already busy trying to remove the badly charred body when the overseer arrived on the scene. Given the fact that the guards were under strict orders to keep the fence electrifi?ed at all times, it was necessary to pry the corpse loose with long wooden poles.

  Only when that process was complete, and the corpse fell free, was it possible to make a positive identifi?cation. Tragg felt something cold trickle into his veins as he looked down into the traitor’s staring eyes. Why? the overseer wanted to know. Why would a man who was about to go free take a run at an electrifi?ed fence?

  But Hooks was dead, none of the guards could speak standard, and the people who knew the answer were elsewhere. Mutuu made a brief appearance, but being ignorant of the agreement between Hooks and Tragg, took the episode at face value and soon went back to bed. Finally, as the jungle creatures screamed and hooted, the long, bloody day came to an end.

  9.

  A brave Captain is a root, out of which, as branches, the courage of his soldiers doth spring.

  —Sir Philip Sidney

  Standard year 1580

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Captain Antonio Santana lay belly-down on a layer of ice-encrusted scree and stared through a pair of Legionissue binos. Each time the crosshairs passed over an object, its range and heat index appeared next to the image. Santana knew that the long U-shaped valley below him had be
en gouged out of Algeron’s surface by a retreating glacier roughly ten thousand standard years earlier. Then, perhaps nine thousand years subsequent to that, a tribe of nomads wandered into the basin and decided to stay. And, thanks to the hand-dug well from which the community took its name, the settlers eventually developed a dooth-powered, pump-driven water distribution system.

  It took hundreds of years of backbreaking work to clear the fi?elds of rock, build the stone walls that split the valley into a patchwork quilt of family farms, and construct the low one-and two-story homes that were so markedly different from the subsurface dwellings typical of most Naa villages.

  All of which explained why Deepwell had prospered, not only as a center of agriculture but as a bustling market town. Until two standard weeks earlier when a large contingent of bandits under the leadership of a Naa named Nofear Throatcut seized control of the town. Deepwell’s warriors had given a good account of themselves according to Nostop Footfast—the Naa youth who lay to Santana’s right. But given the element of surprise, and a force of heavily armed fi?ghters, the bandits won the battle with ease. And that was when the hellish rampage of murder, rape, and theft began.

  It took Footfast the better part of seven standard days to reach the nearest village, where the elders passed word of the outrage along to Senator Nodoubt Truespeak, who brought the matter to General Booly. And it was then that Santana caught wind of the situation and requested permission to lead Team Zebra against the bandits. Not out of a sense of altruism but a very real need to test his newly formed company against an enemy that could shoot back. And who better to test a group of convicted criminals against than another group of criminals?

  And the timing was perfect, because after weeks of waiting, a rescue mission had fi?nally been authorized. And not a moment too soon. . . . Because having learned that Nankool was alive, the cabal had been about to load Team Zebra onto one of Chien-Chu’s freighters and send them to Jericho without permission when the order came down. Some of the conspirators felt that the rescue force should depart immediately in spite of Santana’s request for a combat mission, but General Booly counseled patience. He pointed out that if some part of Team Zebra was going to break, it would be far better to identify the fl?aw on Algeron than somewhere on the surface of Jericho. Which was why Santana found himself about to lead his ragtag company against a gang of criminals. Clever criminals in this case, who, rather than pillage Deepwell and leave, had taken up temporary residence there. A low key presence intended to lure unsuspecting caravans into the village, where they could be slaughtered.