When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  “Surely you jest,” the local undertaker put in cynically. He had craggy features and black fur interspersed with streaks of white. His clothes were dark—and his boots were caked with mud. “President Nankool . . . President Jakov . . . It hardly matters to us. Back before the Confederacy came into existence, we were oppressed by the human empire. Now that the Confederacy exists, we are still oppressed. Nothing has changed.”

  “That isn’t true,” Chien-Chu responded simply, and pointed up toward the glow rod that dangled above him.

  “Where does the power for that light come from? What about the medical care the townspeople receive? And the money in your pockets? All of them fl?ow from the Confederacy. Is it perfect? Hell no, and I should know, because I helped create it.”

  There was a buzz of conversation as the dozen or so council members consulted with each other before a candlemaker named Nightwork Waxman stood. He had tan fur with white tips, and a pair of bifocals were perched on the end of his nose. “You are President Chien-Chu?”

  “I was president,” the businessman admitted. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “I met you once,” the candlemaker said. “We shook hands. But you look different now.”

  “My brain is the same,” Chien-Chu responded. “But the body is new. You could think of it as the civilian equivalent of a T-2.”

  “All of which amounts to nothing,” the undertaker grumbled. “Who cares what was? It’s what is that counts.”

  “And I couldn’t agree more,” Chien-Chu said as he eyed the faces around him. “So let’s talk about what is. The Naa people have their own government now, with Senator Nodoubt Truespeak to speak for them, and a future that looks bright. But only if people like Jakov can be prevented from hijacking the duly elected government. And that’s what he’s trying to do.”

  “But how?” the butcher wanted to know. He was a burly male still clad in the bloodstained apron he’d been wearing when summoned. “We were told that there were checks and balances to prevent anyone from taking over.”

  “And there are,” the cyborg agreed patiently. “And the system would have worked, except that Jakov had all of the people who might oppose him arrested and placed in the pit. General Bill Booly among them.”

  That announcement caused quite a stir, because every one of them knew that General Booly’s grandmother had been Naa, and that he had always been sympathetic to their people. Furthermore, the locals knew Booly was married to Chien-Chu’s niece, the female credited with saving Senator Truespeak’s life not long before. All of which played into the complicated system of clan ties, blood debts, and deed-bonds that held Naa society together. So, now that Booly was in the mix, the already lively discussion grew even more heated, which forced Chien-Chu to sit and wait.

  But the billionaire was a patient man and, because of the many capabilities built into his electromechanical body, could pursue other activities while the debate raged. One of which was to monitor the squad-level radio traffi?c generated by the off-planet marines assigned to track him down. The jarheads weren’t familiar with Algeron, or the Naa people, which was why no one other than a few juveniles would agree to speak with them. Not that Jakov and Wilmot had much choice where troops were concerned, since Booly was popular with his legionnaires, who were already starting to grow restive.

  Chien-Chu’s thoughts were interrupted as the baker spoke. “The council agrees that there is truth in what you say. But what would you have us do? The fort has withstood countless attacks.”

  “I agree,” the cyborg answered. “An attack on Fort Camerone would be pointless. “No, the real opportunity is to recruit some ex-legionnaires and smuggle them inside. Once within the walls, they will go down to the pit and free General Booly. It’s my opinion that both the prisoners and the Legion will support him. Jakov will be forced to plead his case in the Senate, and once all of the facts are made known to them, I believe the senators will make the right decision.”

  “But how?” the baker asked for the second time. “How will we get the ex-legionnaires inside the fort?”

  “That’s a good question,” Chien-Chu answered, as he transferred his gaze from the baker to the undertaker. “Tell me, Citizen Deepdig, how many bodies do you remove from the fort each day?”

  The Naa frowned. “Three or four on average . . . Mostly from the hospital.”

  “And once the bodies have been buried, what happens next?”

  “My number two son takes replacement coffi?ns back inside,” Deepdig answered. “They are custom-made to Legion specifi?cations and . . .”

  The undertaker paused at that point, his face lit up with understanding, and the council member smiled.

  “You are clever human—I’ll say that for you.”

  The rest of the council chuckled, food was summoned, and the real work began.

  15.

  A single look at the enemy’s defenses is more valuable than a thousand additional warriors.

  —Naa folk saying of indeterminate originDate unknown

  THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The Thrakies were an industrious people, and during the relatively short period of time they had been in control of Starfall, entire cities had been constructed. Cities in which most Thrakies chose to live after spending generations on tightly packed ark ships. But some of the more adventurous citizens had begun to construct vacation homes in the surrounding countryside. A trend Ex-ambassador Alway Orno had taken advantage of by renting a small house, which subsequent to his death, the Egg Orno was forced to live in.

  Though pleasant by Thraki standards, it was terribly isolated, located mostly above ground, and uncomfortable. Everywhere the Egg Orno looked she saw angles instead of curves, stairs where ramps should have been, and ceilings that were far too low. In fact it was only in the basement, where Alway’s presence could still be felt, that the female felt halfway comfortable.

  It was a large room, which the ex-ambassador had apparently prepared with her comfort in mind and clearly preferred himself. As the Ramanthian prepared to sort through her mate’s belongings, she was still in the process of recovering from the gunshot wound and ensuing surgery. The fact that she had survived the process was something of a miracle given the fact that the Thraki surgeons weren’t all that familiar with Ramanthian physiology. But, thanks to self-programming nano injected into the wound, she continued to recover.

  Of course, Alway deserved most of the credit for saving her life. By placing his body in front of hers, the functionary had absorbed most of the bullet’s force. The female remembered the shock of the impact, a moment of free fall, and a profound darkness that rose to wrap her in its arms. All of which led the assassins to believe that she was dead.

  But the Egg Orno wasn’t dead, even though at fi?rst she wished she was and contemplated suicide immediately after the operation. But as time passed, her mood changed. It had been stupid to believe that she could escape Hive undetected. The aristocrat knew that now. Both Chancellor Ubatha and the Queen had been determined to fi?nd Alway and kill him. With that realization came a deep and abiding anger. And a desire for revenge.

  But how? The Egg Orno was not only ill, but without friends and vulnerable to a second assassination attempt. Because even though Alway was dead, there was no way to know how vindictive the Queen would be. That didn’t matter, though, not anymore, which was why the female was determined to go through her mate’s belongings no matter how painful the process might be. Because if the ex-diplomat had left anything useful behind, it was likely to be there among his personal effects.

  The next couple of hours were spent going through Alway’s computer fi?les plus piles of printed documents. It seemed like a meaningless mishmash of material at fi?rst, until the Egg Orno came across a handwritten note that referred to “. . . the fi?rst payment from the Confederacy,”

  plus a Thraki bank statement dated the next day, and a variety of other documents related to a rim world occupied by Ramanthian expatriates. Was that where
Alway planned to take her? Yes, it seemed likely.

  But the discoveries raised as many questions as they answered. Why would the Confederacy give money to her mate, the same individual who had caused them such grief? There had to be a reason. A good reason. And, if

  “the fi?rst payment” had been received, then where was the second? Or the third? Those questions and more plagued the Ramanthian as she worked to knit all of the available facts into a coherent pattern. Unfortunately, she had very little to show for it once the process was over. So the Egg Orno went back and reviewed all the fi?les for a second time just in case something important had escaped her. But to no avail.

  That left the aristocrat with nothing to do but rummage through her mate’s clothes in case something of value had been left in one of his voluminous pockets. But that search came up empty as well. So the female was busy refolding the garments when one of them caught her interest. The robe consisted of a rich shimmery cloth, which if she remembered correctly, was actually a photosensitive fabric. The ex-ambassador was not only proud of the device—but had demonstrated it for her on more than one occasion. The Egg Orno felt a tingle of anticipation as she searched for the ribbonlike connector. What images, if any, were stored in the robe she wondered? A boring meeting most likely. But even if she couldn’t see Alway, she’d be able to hear him.

  Once the Egg Orno located the lead, she plugged it into the computer and pinched a series of budlike keys. Dozens of images appeared, but that was normal for anyone with compound eyes, and the Ramanthian found herself looking at a human being. A female, if she wasn’t mistaken—and an ugly one at that. Though not as fl?uent as her mate had been, the Egg Orno spoke serviceable standard, which enabled her to follow the conversation without diffi?culty. “My name is Kay Wilmot,” the alien said. “I am the assistant undersecretary for foreign affairs reporting to Vice President Jakov. The pleasure is mutual.”

  The Ramanthian felt a sudden surge of excitement. Alway had met with a high-ranking Confederacy offi?cial!

  Could this be it? What she’d been looking for? The aristocrat watched intently as the alien revealed that President Nankool had been captured and was being held on Jericho. It was valuable information. Or so it seemed to the Egg Orno. But what to do with it? Alway would have known what to do. She felt sure of that. But he was gone. However, rather than sit and worry at the problem, there was something more pressing the female had to take care of. And that was her mate’s funeral, a sad affair scheduled for the following morning. Where, if the Queen’s assassins wanted to fi?nish her, they would have the perfect opportunity.

  But when the next day dawned clear and bright, and two of Alway’s Thraki friends joined the Egg Orno in front of the funeral pyre she had commissioned, she was the only Ramanthian present. So as the fl?ames rose to enfold the carefully wrapped body, there was no one other than her to extol the dead diplomat’s virtues or list his many accomplishments. A sudden wind took hold of the smoke along with her words and carried them east. A good omen according to Ramanthian traditions—but of no comfort to the bereaved widow.

  Once the ceremony was over, and the fi?re had burned itself out, the Egg Orno shuffl?ed down the gentle slope toward the car she had hired. A Thraki was present to see her off. He had light brown fur, beady eyes, and prominent ears. “The ambassador didn’t receive much mail,” the offi?cial explained, as he offered her an envelope. “But what there was came through me. That’s an invitation to a reception at the Drac embassy. I know because I received one, too. Rumor has it that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa will attend.”

  The Egg Orno felt something clutch at her stomach.

  “The Hudathan?”

  “Why, yes,” the Thraki replied mildly. “Do you know him?”

  “We never met,” the Ramanthian replied bleakly. “But I know of him. . . . He fought a duel with my other mate and killed him.”

  The offi?cial looked crestfallen. “I’m terribly sorry,” he mumbled contritely. “I was unaware of the connection, and I—”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” the Egg Orno interrupted. “I would like to meet Triad Hiween Doma-Sa. Can I attend in Alway’s place?”

  The Thraki swallowed uncomfortably. “Er, yes, I guess so. . . .”

  “Good,” the Ramanthian replied. “I’ll see you there.”

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Thousands of eyes peered up into the azure blue sky as the specially equipped air car towed the free end of the space elevator south, toward the point where it would be captured by the ground crew and reeled into the forerunner ruins. Then, if all went well, the superstrong cable would be secured to the huge shackle-style fi?tting that had been installed there. And if things didn’t go well, then there would be hell to pay since both Commandant Mutuu and the War Mutuu had turned out to witness the historic moment from the comfort of a shaded pavilion and were unlikely to be very forgiving.

  That added to the pressure Tragg felt as he and his slaves waited for the tubby air car to tow the 23,560-mile-long cable into position. From where the renegade stood, the whole thing looked like some sort of magic trick because of the way the space elevator hung seemingly unsupported under the vast canopy of blue sky.

  But it was supported by the dreadnaught Imperator, which orbited high above. So the only problem was a variable wind, which presently sought to push the cable to the east, even as the air car fought to pull the shiny thread south.

  And it should have worked, would have worked, except for one thing: The air car was not designed to function as a tug. So as the wind blew, and the operator began to use more power, the engine started to overheat, something the pilot became aware of as an audible alarm went off and a wisp of black smoke issued from the vehicle. Given all of the countervailing stresses involved, the Ramanthian knew that he had a minute, maybe less, in which to complete his mission.

  “Drop the dragline!” the operator ordered, and felt a sense of relief as the troopers directly behind him wrestled a huge coil of rope up and over the side. The car bobbed in response, but because it was connected to the space elevator, couldn’t go far.

  Tragg shaded his eyes as he looked upwards. A steady stream of smoke was pouring out of the air car by then, and the overseer felt a sudden stab of fear as the dragline fell toward the ground. Because the POWs were supposed to grab on to the line, and gain control of it before the space tether was released, but none of them were close enough to do so.

  Meanwhile, as the engine began to cut in and out, the wind disappeared. That caused the air car to veer toward the west and the air strip. The pilot tried to compensate, but couldn’t overcome the tug’s inertia and gave the only order he could. “Release the cable!”

  One of the crew members had been waiting for that very order and jerked a lever. The effect was to let the long, thin cable fall free of the air car. Because the dragline was connected to the free-swinging space elevator, it fl?ew across the surface of the airstrip like a three-hundredfoot-long whip.

  Tragg screamed, “Catch it!” But the words came too late, as the dragline cut two Ramanthian troopers in half and went straight for the pavilion where Mutuu and his mate were up on their feet. The regally attired commandant hurled an invective at the pilot as the War Mutuu threw him down. And just in time, too, as the whiplike rope severed the pavilion’s roof supports and brought the entire structure crashing down around them. Thanks to the fact that most of the dragline’s kinetic energy had been expended, it was transformed from a whip into an elusive snake that slithered back and forth across the tarmac as if determined to escape into the jungle. The POWs, led by an infuriated Tragg, were in hot pursuit by then. But most of the prisoners were in such poor condition that they couldn’t run fast enough to catch up. Christine Vanderveen was one of the few exceptions. Not because the FSO was inherently stronger than the rest—but because of the extra food Tragg had forced her to eat. But none of that was on Vanderveen’s mind as she led the chase across the airstrip in an effort to capt
ure the rope as quickly as possible and prevent reprisals. However, some of the other prisoners saw the situation differently, like the sailor who intentionally tripped the diplomat in hopes that the runaway space elevator would destroy itself. Nankool and the rest of the LG knew better, however, because in spite of the fact that the drag-rope was elusive, it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthians brought it under control with or without help from the prisoners. So as a bruised Vanderveen picked herself up, Commander Schell yelled at the POWs to “secure that goddamned line!”

  And, when the wind in the upper atmosphere shifted slightly, they were fi?nally able to do so as a couple of POWs pounced on it. Then, as more bodies piled on, the rope gradually came under control.

  But the task wouldn’t be over until the errant cable was safely shackled deep inside the forerunner ruins. Vanderveen was among those who began to pull the dragline across the tarmac toward a similar length of rope that led down into the ruins where it was attached to a winch. So once the two lengths of rope were joined, it was possible for the POWs to let go, while Tragg issued orders via a handheld radio.

  Vanderveen saw the dragline jerk as the winch came on, and Tragg gave the POWs new orders. “It will take some time to remove all the slack,” the overseer informed them.

  “That’s when the cable eye will come down—and the winch crew will need your help to secure it. So haul your asses over there and get to work. And that includes you, sweet cheeks.”

  The last was directed at Vanderveen, and when combined with a conspiratorial wink, was suffi?cient to reinforce the notion that the two of them had a special relationship. The tactic had proven to be wickedly effective at driving a wedge between the diplomat and her peers in spite of efforts by people like Calisco to counter Tragg’s manipulations.