When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Meanwhile what had begun as a relatively easy march gradually became more arduous as the trail trended upwards. The column slowed as those in the lead struggled up a long, slippery hillside, topped a gently rounded hill, and slip-slid down into a ravine. The only way out was to climb a stairway of intertwined tree roots. It was a treacherous business at best since some of the cablelike structures were unexpectedly brittle, others had the ability to pull themselves up out of reach, and at least one sturdy-looking tuber morphed into an angry snake when a naval rating wrapped his fingers around it.

  Fortunately Vanderveen, Nankool, Hooks, and Calisco were among those at the head of the column. Because once two or three hundred sets of boots passed through an area, solid ground was quickly transformed into mud, which forced those following behind to work even harder.

  Adding to the difficulty of the march was the fact that with the exception of the marines, very few of the prisoners were physically prepared for that sort of journey. President Nankool was an excellent example. While the chief executive was able to hold his own during the first few hours of the journey, he soon began to pant and was forced to pause every few minutes. Then, when it came to clambering up over the ridge, he needed assistance from Vanderveen and others, which placed even more stress on them.

  Fortunately, a marine named Cassidy was among their group, and in a blatant attempt to impress Vanderveen, devoted what seemed like an inexhaustible supply of energy to helping the president over the rocky summit, for which the FSO was very grateful. Nankool never gave up, though, and never complained, as he forced his ungainly body to continue the struggle. Others were less resolute, however, and at least two dozen of them fell by the way-side. Some were simply in need of a rest, but others were too exhausted to go on, and simply collapsed.

  Because the Ramanthian guards were not only in good shape themselves but members of a jungle-evolved species, they had no patience with what they perceived as slackers. So when troopers came across a prisoner lying next to the trail, the first thing they did was to kick the unfortunate individual and order them to stand. Those who managed to obey were allowed to live. Those who couldn’t get up were executed. Some of them willingly, glad to end the torture, even if that meant death.

  The general effect of the gunshots was to send a shiver of fear along the entire length of the column. But that didn’t stop the first prisoners to come upon the scene from scavenging the dead person’s pack, clothing, and boots. Because on Jericho, survival took priority over squeamishness.

  Meanwhile, back at the tail end of the column, where a half dozen prisoners stumbled along under the combined weight of Tragg’s food, shelter, and other equipment, the overseer welcomed the summary executions, knowing it was all part of a logical process. After all, the mercenary reasoned, those who were weak would die anyway, so the sooner the better. Because that was the way of things on any planet—and would make the overall group stronger.

  But nothing lasts forever, so what had been a climb was transformed into a rapid descent as the head of the column snaked up over the rocky ridge and started down the other side. A moment that came as a considerable relief to Nankool, who was happy to let Jericho’s gravity do some of the work, as he skidded down a scree-covered slope.

  From there the prisoners made their way down through an ancient rockslide, reentered the triple-canopy forest, and followed the trail along the side of a hill. Vanderveen thought things were going to get better at that point but soon learned how wrong she could be as the vegetation began to change and the ground softened. The sun was hanging low in the western sky by the time the diplomat was forced to wade out into the murky waters of a swamp. As the cold water closed around her legs, Vanderveen wondered if the column would be able to reach solid ground before darkness settled in around them.

  An hour later the answer was clear as the red monitor led the prisoners out of a forest of frothy celery-like trees and into shallow water. The sky had turned a light shade of lavender by then, and stars had begun to appear, as the exhausted POWs followed a line of vertical poles out toward the low-lying island at the center of the lake. “Look!” Hooks said as he splashed through the water at Vanderveen’s side. “I see ruins.”

  The diplomat knew there were forerunner ruins on Jericho, lots of them, so she wasn’t surprised as the bottom shelved upwards, and their boots found firm footing. So firm it was quite possible that they were walking on a submerged road.

  Nankool was exhausted by the time he arrived on dry land, but rather than collapse when a guard announced that the prisoners would be staying the night, he took charge instead. “We need firewood,” the chief executive announced firmly. “Enough to fuel at least six fires. We had a relatively easy time of it today,” the president added, “so the least we can do is have everything ready when the rest of the column arrives. Secretary Hooks, please find Commander Schell and tell him to come see me. The people who led today should follow tomorrow.

  “FSO Vanderveen,” Nankool continued, “find the doctors. Tell them to open a clinic. I hope they know somethingabout feet—because they’re going to see a lot of them. Once that’s accomplished, we’ll need some latrines. And pass the word for people to boil the lake water before they drink it. Lord knows what sort of bugs are swimming around in that stuff.”

  Vanderveen figured that few if any of the local microorganisms would be able to exploit alien life-forms on such short biological notice, but it made sense to be careful, so she nodded.

  By the time darkness fell, fires illuminated parts of the mysterious half-buried building, and most of the prisoners were clustered around what little bit of warmth there was. Meanwhile, the night creatures had begun to grunt, hoot, and gibber out in the swamp. And just in case the night sounds weren’t sufficient to intimidate any would-be escapees, Tragg’s monitors floated through the ruins like silvery ghosts, bathing everything below in the harsh glare of their floodlights. The overseer was camped on a smaller island, where his robots could better protect him, but it soon became apparent that the mercenary could see what the monitors saw. Because as the airborne machines continued to patrol the area, the overseer made occasional comments intended to let the POWs know how omniscient he was.

  But intimidating though such measures were, some of the prisoners managed to ignore them. One such individual was Private First Class Cassidy, who, having devoured all his food during the day’s march, went looking for more, a practice very much in keeping with the survival training the Marine Corps had given him.

  So neither Vanderveen nor the rest of the people gathered around Nankool’s fire were alarmed when Cassidy disappeared, or especially surprised when the torch-bearing marine reappeared forty-five minutes later, with a rather remarkable prize cradled in his arms. The egg, which had a yellowish hue, was at least twelve inches in circumference.

  And, as Hooks put it, “A sure sign that something big and ugly lives in the area.”

  Cassidy, who was clearly pleased with himself, grinned happily and immediately went to work preparing his find for a late dinner. No small task, given the shortage of tools and cooking implements. But finally, after painstaking experimentation, the marine managed to remove one end of the oval-shaped egg with repeated taps from a triangular piece of rock. Then, having seen how thick the shell was, Cassidy placed the container on a carefully arranged bed of coals. It was slow going at first, since there were solids within the yellowish goo, but the process of stirring became considerably easier as the now-scrambled yolk began to heave and bubble.

  A tantalizing odor had begun to waft through the smoky air as the marine bent to remove the protein-packed shell from the fire—and Vanderveen felt a moment of temptation as Cassidy offered her both a grin and a spoon. “Here, ma’am. Dig in!”

  But for reasons Vanderveen wasn’t entirely sure of, she shook her head and smiled. “I’m full at the moment. But thanks.”

  Cassidy shrugged good-naturedly, ate a spoonful, and rolled his eyes in obvious pleasure. Th
at spurred a sailor to try some—followed by a greedy Calisco. All three were busy chewing when the Ramanthian guard shuffled into the circle of light and eyeballed them. All conversation came to a sudden stop, and firelight danced in the alien’s coal black eyes. He couldn’t speak standard, but when the trooper spotted the fire-blackened egg, his electronic translator did the job for him. “What-is-that?”

  The rifle made an excellent pointer, and, being a marine, Cassidy had plenty of respect for it. “That’s an egg,” the young man said proudly. “A big honking egg that I found out in the swamp. You want some?”

  The question was followed by a moment of profound silence, during which Vanderveen began to feel a strange emptiness take over her stomach. Because as the Ramanthian processed Cassidy’s words, the diplomat remembered something important. Rather than give birth to live offspring, the way many species did, the Ramanthians produced eggs, some of which were allowed to hatch naturally.

  The diplomat wanted to say something, to find a way to forestall what she feared would happen next, but it was too late. There was a loud bang as the Ramanthian shot Cassidy in the left knee. The marine uttered a cry of pain as he grabbed hold of the bloody mess and began to rock back and forth. “Why, God damn it, why?” the soldier wanted to know.

  Half a dozen prisoners had come to their feet by then, Nankool among them, and the Ramanthian might have been in trouble had it not been for the sudden shaft of light that washed over the entire area. “Hold it right there,” Tragg said grimly. “Or pay the price.”

  More Ramanthians arrived after that. There was a brief burst of conversation as the first guard made his report, followed by an obvious expression of anger from a heavily armed noncom. “Who else?” the trooper demanded. “Who else eat our young?”

  Cassidy screamed as another shot rang out. His good knee had been transformed into a ball of bloody hamburger, and he brought both wounds up against his chest where he could cradle them with his arms. “Nobody!” the marine insisted stoutly. “Just me.”

  There was a long moment of silence as the noncom surveyed the beings around him. Tragg, who was watching the episode from afar, spotted at least two guilty-looking faces. But the Ramanthian noncom had no experience at reading alien facial expressions, and the overseer had no reason to intervene. Especially since the POWs were unlikely to make that particular mistake again.

  Nankool made as if to step forward, but Hooks held the president back. And, with nothing else to go on, the Ramanthian was forced to accept the marine’s confession. Orders were given, Cassidy was borne away, and Calisco threw up.

  Tragg, who was still watching via the monitor, nodded knowingly and turned his attention to another face. A beautiful face second only to the one he had destroyed back at the spaceport. There was something about the blond woman that reminded him of Marci. He had spared her once. But for how long?

  Vanderveen felt a sense of relief as the spotlight clicked off, but the feeling was short-lived as the Ramanthians began to cook Cassidy over a fire, and the screaming began.

  PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Having only recently been elevated to the post of Chief Chancellor, Itnor Ubatha was still rather conscious of the perks associated with his position and took pleasure in the fact that a government vehicle was waiting for him as he left his home. The driver opened the rear door. Ubatha slipped inside and reveled in the cell-powered car’s luxurious interior as it carried him along busy streets, through one of the enormous chambers in which the citizens of the city lived, and past a bustling shopping center. The Chancellor and his mates could purchase almost anything now. But that was a recent development. The path from junior civil servant to a position second only to the Queen had been perilous but well worth the effort. Now, having arrived, the bureaucrat faced a new challenge. And that was to hold on to what he had. Because one could never rest within the labyrinthinal world of Ramanthian politics.

  The key to survival was to not only anticipate what the Queen would want next, but to take action if such a thing was possible, which in this case it was. Because after a long series of brilliantly executed schemes, the Egg Orno’s single surviving mate had not only failed to deliver on his most extravagant promise, but gone into hiding somewhere off-planet. But where? That’s what the Queen might very well ask Ubatha when he met with her later in the day. She wouldn’t really expect him to know the answer, of course, since the intelligence functionaries had been unable to locate the missing diplomat, but what if he were able to develop a lead? The official had nothing to lose other than some time, so the decision was easy. Especially since he would be in control of the interview and everything else that happened, too. Which, come to think of it, was the way things should always be.

  Having been notified of the Chancellor’s visit the day before, the Egg Orno’s emotions had initially been buried beneath the weight of the preparations necessary to receive someone of Ubatha’s high rank, but everything was finally ready. And, with no means to distract herself, the female was nearly paralyzed with fear. Because Ambassador Alway Orno had been missing for a long time by then, the government was trying to find him, and she had been interrogated five times.

  And that, the Egg Orno feared, was the purpose of Chancellor Ubatha’s visit. To interrogate her in a way that lower-ranking officials couldn’t. And, if successful, to find out where Alway was hiding. So when her sole remaining servant entered the carefully screened reception alcove to announce Ubatha’s presence, the Egg Orno was painfully aware of how much was at stake, and determined to perform well. Because it was her duty to protect both her mates and her progeny. A responsibility that she, like the Queen, took very seriously indeed. Except that she had produced only three eggs, while the monarch was in the process of laying billions, a reality that was fundamental to Ramanthian foreign policy. Because billions of additional lives implied more planets. And more planets implied more ships to serve them, which her mate had successfully stolen from the Confederacy. A fact that both the Queen and her advisors seemed to have forgotten. The anger she felt acted to neutralize the Egg Orno’s Fear.

  Like all his kind, Ubatha was equipped with two antenna-shaped olfactory organs that protruded from his forehead and provided the official with all sorts of information as he entered the Orno family’s abode. The air was redolent with the odor of expensive incense, but it wasn’t sufficient to conceal the smell of spicy grub sauce that wafted from the kitchen, or the lingering tang of recently applied cleaning agents.

  And, while the Chancellor’s compound eyes wouldn’t allow him to focus on anything more than a yard away, he saw the sandals next to the front door, the carefully arranged rock garden beyond, and the exquisite layering of fabrics that had been hung in front of the earthen walls. Farther back a glistening water-walk carried the official into the reception room, where the Egg Orno was required to sit behind an opaque screen rather than confront him directly.

  A well-placed light served to project the Egg Orno’s carefully groomed profile onto the paper-thin partition, thereby protecting both Ubatha and herself from any possibility of scandal. But, even though the bureaucrat couldn’t see the female directly, he could smell the heady combination of perfume, wing wax, and chitin polish that identified the Egg Orno as a member of the upper class. “Welcome,” the Egg Orno said, as her pincers went through a highly stylized series of movements. “The Orno clan is honored to have such a distinguished visitor. Please sit down.”

  “As I am honored to be here,” Ubatha said, as he straddled an ornately carved chair. “Ambassador Orno is fortunate to have such a skillful mate and charming home. If only he were here to enjoy both.”

  Now it begins, the Egg Orno thought to herself. And rather quickly, too. “Yes,” the female agreed out loud. “Nothing would please me more.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the Chancellor replied smoothly. “Because if you were to offer your assistance, I suspect the government would be able to locate Ambassador Orno and bring him
home.”

  For what? The Egg Orno thought scornfully. So you can kill him? Never! But to actually say something like that would be to reveal the way she actually felt and thereby foreclose any possibility of joining her mate on Starfall. So the Egg Orno lied with the same elegance she brought to everything else. “Having already lost the War Orno in service to the empire, I fear that the ambassador is dead as well,” she said sadly. “Nothing else could explain his prolonged absence. However, lacking proof of such a calamity, I continue to hope for a miracle.”

  Though almost certainly false, it was the right thing to say, and Ubatha was impressed by the Egg Orno’s cool unflappable persona. “Perhaps you are correct,” the bureaucrat allowed politely. “But I would be less than forthright if I were to ignore a second, and to some minds, more plausible possibility. And that is that having bungled his latest assignment, and fearing the Queen’s wrath, your mate has gone into hiding. An understandable, if not-altogetherhonorable strategy, that seems beneath a person of Ambassador Orno’s accomplishments.

  “So,” Ubatha continued gravely, as he continued to eye the now-motionless silhouette, “should you somehow learn of Ambassador Orno’s whereabouts, I urge you to contact me, so that we can take steps to ensure a safe return. I think such a course would be best for both of us.”

  He wants the credit, the Egg Orno thought dully. And he’s offering to protect me if I go along. “I understand,” the female replied coolly. “It was kind of you to come.”

  Ubatha knew a dismissal when he heard one and, lacking a way to force a response, had no choice but to go. “Thank you for your hospitality,” the official said smoothly, and the visit was over.

  The Queen, who had once been the same size as her female subjects, was huge. It was a transformation that continued to bother the monarch, because her body was so large that a special cradle was required to support her swollen abdomen, and she could no longer move around on her own. Which, when combined with the nonstop production of eggs, made her feel like a factory. A cranky, increasingly paranoid factory, that was very hard to please. Especially in the wake of the Confederacy’s suicidal attack on the subsurface city of First Birth, in which 1.7 million Ramanthian lives had summarily been snuffed out of existence. The disaster was referred to as “a tragic seismic event” on Hive but was heralded as a tremendous victory within the Confederacy.