When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Hudathan politics had been extremely bloody until very recently, so the others understood the reference, even if some were reluctant to agree. “It does seem as if we could go around the table,” Booly agreed. “How ’bout you Margaret? Assuming our people are still alive, where would the bugs take them?”

  “We’re working on that,” the intelligence chief replied gravely. “Although we’re pretty sure they wouldn’t be taken to Hive.”

  “I agree,” Osavi put in. “The Ramanthian home world serves as the residence of the Queen and is therefore sacred. To land aliens on the surface of Hive would be unthinkable.”

  “Well, they’d better get used to the idea because it’s going to happen,” Doma-Sa responded grimly. “And when it does, a whole lot of bugs are going to die.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Booly replied. “But it’s going to be a while before we can penetrate their home system, much less drop troops onto Hive. In the meantime, let’s put every intelligence asset we have on finding out where our people are. Margaret’s staff is working on it, but maybe there’s something more we can do. How about Chien-Chu Enterprises, Admiral? Can your people give us a hand?”

  The possibility had already occurred to Sergi Chien-Chu. The family business was a huge enterprise, with operations on dozens of planets, some of which were no longer accessible due to the war. But the vast fleet of spaceships that belonged to Chien-Chu Enterprises had access to those that were—and there was always the chance that one or more of his employees would see or hear something. The problem was time, because while all of his vessels would eventually have hypercoms, none was equipped with the new technology as yet. “Maylo and I will put out the word,” the businessman promised. “And report anything we hear.”

  “Thank you,” Booly replied gratefully. “In the meantime I will tell the public affairs people to work up a release concerning the loss of the Gladiator but with no mention of Nankool or his staff.”

  “It’s imperative that we keep the lid on,” Xanith agreed earnestly. “Because if the Ramanthians realize they have the president, they will use him for leverage. I’m sure he would tell us to refuse their demands, but who knows how much pressure Earth’s government will bring to bear? Or what the Senate may decide? The Thrakies might lead a ‘Save our president’ movement actually intended to aid the Ramanthians.”

  “And there’s something else to consider,” the frail-looking Dweller added gloomily. “Very few people within the Confederacy are aware of the Spirit cult that has grown increasingly popular within the Ramanthian military. They believe true warriors always fight to the death. That means they have no respect for prisoners and tend to treat them like animals. So, if Nankool and the rest of the survivors fall into the pincers of those who believe in what they call ‘The True Path,’ life will be very hard indeed. So hard that one of his fellow prisoners may be tempted to reveal the president’s identity in hopes of receiving favorable treatment.” It was a sobering thought, and even though all of them had to return to the party, it was difficult to think of anything else.

  THE VILLAGE OF WATERSONG, PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  As the sun started to rise somewhere beyond the cold gray haze, daylight began to fade in, as if emanating from within the planet itself. And gradually, as the mist started to clear, the jagged Towers of Algeron appeared more than a thousand miles to the south. Some of the peaks soared eighty thousand feet into the sky, making the mountains so heavy that if they were somehow transported to Earth, their weight would crack the planet’s crust.

  But the two worlds were different. Very different. Because while it took Terra twenty-four standard hours to execute a full rotation, Algeron completed a full 360-degree turn every two hours and forty-two minutes. The cycle was so fast that centrifugal force had created a globe-spanning mountain range, which thanks to the gravity differential between the poles and the equator, weighed only half what it would have on Earth.

  None of which was of the slightest interest to the one-armed bandit chieftain named Nofear Throatcut except to the extent that most of those in the village below him had been asleep for two local days and would remain so for two additional planetary rotations. There would be sentries, of course, because no self-respecting Naa village would be so foolish as to rest without posting some, but having been on duty for a while, and with the gradual return of daylight, the watch keepers would not only be a little sleepy, but slightly overconfident.

  But Throatcut and his mixed band of deserters, renegades, and thieves were anything but typical. A fact that quickly became apparent as Nightrun Fargo pulled the trigger on his homemade crossbow and sent a metal bolt speeding through the early-morning mist. The razor-sharp point ripped a hole through a sentry’s unprotected throat. Which was no small feat since it had been necessary for the bandit to crawl within 150 yards of his target without generating noise or being detected by the villager’s acute sense of smell.

  The target, a youngster of only seventeen, made a gurgling sound as he attempted to shout a warning, tugged at the now slippery shaft, and was already in the process of falling as Nosay Slowspeak loosed another bolt. This one was directed at an older sentry. There was a dull thump as the bolt hit the warrior’s chest, penetrated his leather armor, and knocked the oldster off his feet.

  But the more senior watch keeper was a clever old coot who, having tied a lanyard to the cast-iron alarm bell mounted next to him, managed to ring the device even as he fell. Throatcut swore as a loud metallic clang was heard, and a third sentry fired into the mist. “Okay,” the chieftain said, as he brought a Legion-issue hand com to his lips. “Lindo, you know what to do. Don’t kill all of the females, though. Some of the boys are horny!”

  That got a laugh, plus some ribald commentary that would never have been tolerated by the noncoms Throatcut had served under in the Legion. “You got that right!” Longride Doothman put in.

  “Save one of those whores for me!” Salwa Obobwa added eagerly, as more shots were fired from within the village.

  But Throatcut put forward no objection because he knew how important it was to maintain just enough discipline to get the job done and not one iota more if he wanted to remain in command.

  The villagers were beginning to emerge from their underground homes by then. The locals were only half-dressed in many cases but armed to the teeth with a mix of locally produced rifles, Legion-issue weapons of every possible description, and oversized Hudathan hand-me-downs. And, given the rough-and-ready nature of the Naa tribespeople, the villagers would have been able to give a good account of themselves had it not been for Throatcut’s secret weapon.

  Like many of his kind, Cady Lindo had been executed for murder back on Earth, given an opportunity to trade oblivion for a place in the Legion of the Damned, and downloaded into a succession of increasingly complex electromechanical bodies until he was qualified to occupy the very latest version of the battle-tested Trooper II (T-2) combat vehicle. A ten-foot-tall machine that stood on two armored legs and could carry a single bio bod into a variety of combat environments while employing a truly devastating array of weapons ranging from an arm-mounted air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, to an arm-mounted fast-recovery laser cannon and two shoulder-mounted missile launchers, both of which were safely stored up on the mesa that Throatcut and his gang used as a base.

  But Lindo had no need for missile launchers as he emerged from hiding to enter the north end of the village. Bullets began to ping against his armor, and a poorly thrown grenade went off about fifteen feet away, as the cyborg opened fire. The outgunned defenders never had a chance as they were snatched off their feet, cut to shreds, or incinerated as they attempted to flee.

  Seeing that the head-on assault had failed, some of the local warriors sought to outflank the mechanical monster by turning west into the protection of the rocks that backed the ravine-hugging village. But Throatcut had anticipated such a move and a force of bio bods were there to cut them down. The human nam
ed Obobwa, along with Musicplay, Fargo, and Slowspeak opened fire with fully automatic weapons as a dozen half-seen warriors charged into a hail of lead.

  Throatcut, who had been watching the slaughter from the top of the rock-strewn slope, began to issue new orders before the last body hit the ground. “Cease fire! Save your ammo! And make sure all of them are dead.”

  The bandits rose from their various hiding places, and a series of shots rang out, as Throatcut followed a steep switchbacking trail down into the now-devastated village. A comely female, armed with an old muzzle loader, popped up out of a hole. But the long-barreled rifle was too heavy for her, and she was still trying to aim it when Throatcut struck the side of her head with his pistol. She collapsed at his feet.

  Though no longer engaged in combat, Lindo was standing guard. Though unlikely, there was always the chance that warriors from another village would happen by, or a group of locals would return from the hunt. If so, the T-2’s sensors should pick them up, thereby giving the rest of the gang time to flee or prepare themselves for combat.

  There were screams, interspersed by more gunfire, as the bandits fought their way down into the subterranean dwellings, where loot in the form of food, booze, and ammo was theirs for the taking. The older females were generally murdered, as were many of the younger ones, unless they were pretty enough to catch someone’s eye. Then they were hauled up to the surface and loaded onto one of the woolly dooths that were waiting to haul the plunder back to the mesa. Most were crying, some continued to struggle, and one committed suicide by attacking Musicplay with a kitchen knife.

  There were cubs of course. Which were typically left to fend for themselves unless they got in the way, as one youngster did when he threw a rock at Lindo. That impertinence earned the cub an energy bolt.

  Finally, having obtained what they had come for, and led by Throatcut, who rode high on the T-2’s back, the bandits followed a meandering course back toward the mesa they called home. A trip that exposed them to one of Madame X’s spy sats as it passed overhead. Back in the days when Algeron had been classified as a protectorate, a fly-form would have been dispatched to inspect the group. Especially in the wake of other attacks by a renegade T-2. But the planet was independent now, and theoretically responsible for protecting its own citizens, even if the new government lacked the means to do so. So no action was taken by Xanith’s analysts other than to generate a report that was copied to Senator Nodoubt Truespeak and that individual’s overworked staff.

  Seven Algeron-length days had passed by the time Throatcut and his band arrived at the base of the massive stone pillar and began the long arduous journey to the top. The sun had risen once again as the cyborg and the heavily laden dooths made their way up past an extremely treacherous rockslide to the plateau’s windswept top. A rocky spire marked the entrance to their subsurface habitation, and once there, the bandits began to dismount. Cybertech Wylie Rin came out to greet the freebooters, as did three forlorn-looking females, all of whom were put to work unloading the dooths.

  In the meantime the latest captives were taken down into a warren of underground rooms to be raped, and in one case tortured, because that was Slowspeak’s notion of sex. Some, those deemed worthy, would be kept, but the others would be put to death a few days later. Because enjoyable though the females might be, slaves require food, and the bandits had no desire to venture out more frequently than they had to.

  As night fell, and the relentless fingers of the wind began to probe the ruins, a sad, keening noise was heard. It was as if the cries of those who had suffered on the mesa in the past had somehow been blended with the screams of those held there in the present to produce a time-spanning cry of anguish. But now, as in the past, no help was forthcoming.

  FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  It was easy to lose track of time on a planet where the days were so short, buried under a fortress where there was no natural light, immersed in a flow of work that never stopped. Which was why Booly was surprised to find that after working through the artificial eight-hour “night,” it was suddenly time to attend Jakov’s strategy session. A meeting in which some sort of plan would no doubt be hashed out even if doing so proved to be frustrating. The part of his job that Booly hated most.

  The officer was running about five minutes late, so when Booly entered the conference room, he expected to find the other participants present. But in spite of the fact that Chien-Chu, Xanith, Doma-Sa, and Osavi were seated around the table, neither Jakov nor Wilmot was anywhere to be seen. Of course with the entire weight of the Confederacy resting upon his shoulders, it would be quite understandable if the vice president was delayed. So Booly took some food from a side table, poured himself a cup of caf, and listened as Xanith gave an informal report.

  “Bottom line, we don’t have the foggiest idea where the prisoners were taken,” the intel chief said grimly. “So, no progress there. The good news, if that’s the right word for it, is that when the Samurai and her battle group dropped into the Nebor system to investigate, they were able to recover a life pod containing a junior officer from one the Gladiator’s escorts. She was able to confirm the essence of Captain Flerko’s hypercom message. Not the part about Nankool—but the way the trap was set. The Sam found lots of debris, but no Ramanthians, or anyone else for that matter.”

  The naval command structure would be eager to get any details they could concerning the trap, but the information wasn’t going to help locate the POWs and rescue them.

  “I haven’t got anything, either,” Chien-Chu confessed glumly. “Nor would I expect to at this early date.”

  There was more conversation, all of which was trivial, until Jakov and Wilmot arrived twenty minutes later. Rather than offer some sort of pro forma apology, as Booly expected he would, the vice president simply took a seat. And if the politician was feeling the weight of the additional responsibilities that had been thrust upon him, there was no sign of it on his freshly shaven face. “So,” Jakov began blandly, “what have you got for us?”

  Wilmot, who made it a habit to monitor Jakov’s words for indictors of where she stood, heard the word “us” and felt an immediate surge of pleasure. By including her in the sentence, the vice president had elevated her to a status higher than that of the other beings in the room! Even Triad Doma-Sa, who qualified as a visiting head of state! Clearly her official, as well as unofficial, efforts to keep Jakov happy were working, including the rather rigorous bout of sex that had delayed them.

  “So,” Xanith concluded, as she finished her report, “we don’t know where they are.”

  Jakov nodded soberly. “That’s regrettable—but understandable. I’m sure you’ll keep me informed. By the way, I’d like to hold these meetings on a regular basis. . . . Although I don’t see any need for all of you to attend. I know Triad Doma-Sa, Admiral Chien-Chu, and Professor Osavi are all very busy. With that in mind I will designate members of my personal staff to fill in for them. Then we can convene the larger group when circumstances warrant. Perhaps Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would be so kind as to make the necessary arrangements.”

  Chien-Chu, who had once been president himself, couldn’t help but feel a sense of grudging admiration for the skillful manner in which he and the other Nankool loyalists had been removed from the inner circle to make room for some of the vice president’s political protégés. And there wasn’t a damned thing any of them could do about it.

  “So, unless there’s something else, I’d better get back to work,” Jakov announced lightly. “It seems that the Prithians are upset over the way Thraki freighters have started to appear in the small, out-of-the-way systems that they have traditionally served. Even though such routes couldn’t possibly be profitable for our diminutive friends. And that raises the question of why? Both sides are waiting in my office.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Booly acknowledged. “But I would appreciate it if you could find time to take a look at the rescue plan th
at my staff and I hammered out.”

  “Later perhaps,” Jakov said dismissively as he came to his feet. “It saddens me to say it, but there isn’t much point in working on a rescue plan until we know where the POWs are. Even then, the realities of war, combined with other priorities, may make it difficult to implement such a plan. So keep it handy, but let’s focus on our most important objective, which is winning the war.” And with that, both Jakov and Wilmot departed.

  A long silence followed the moment when the door closed. “Damn,” Xanith said finally. “He doesn’t want to find the POWs.”

  “No, I think it’s President Nankool that he doesn’t want to find,” Doma-Sa said cynically. “A strategy I can easily understand since it’s the sort of thing that my people are known for!”

  All of those present knew how dangerous Hudathan politics could be, so no one chose to debate the point. “I fear you are correct old friend,” Chien-Chu said grimly. “But I’d like to be wrong.”

  “Well,” Booly replied thoughtfully, “let’s continue to refine the rescue plan. Then, once we know where the POWs are, it will be ready to go.”

  “And if Jakov refuses to authorize a rescue mission?” Chien-Chu wanted to know.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the officer answered stolidly.

  “Any attempt to send a rescue party without the vice president’s approval could be interpreted as treason,” Xanith warned.

  “And failure to try and rescue them could be regarded as treason as well,” the general replied grimly. “So let’s hope that we’re never forced to choose.”

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