When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  “And you,” Orno replied, his heart filled with hope. Because here, in his hour of greatest need, was a way out. With the Egg Orno at his side, and a million-plus credits to grease the way, the two of them could disappear.

  “One last question,” Wilmot said coolly, as the Ramanthian rose to leave. “Our intelligence people believe you were the one who planted the bomb on the Friendship. Are they correct?”

  There was a long moment of silence as the coconspirators stared into each other’s eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Orno answered. “Yes,” the Ramanthian replied. “It was my finest moment.” And with that, the ex-ambassador left the room.

  ABOARD THE EPSILON INDI, IN ORBIT AROUND THE PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  The jungle foliage was thick. Too thick to see properly. But thanks to the fact that each member of Santana’s platoon was represented by a symbol projected onto the inside surface of his visor, the cavalry officer knew exactly where they were relative to him and the Trooper II he was riding.

  There wasn’t anything subtle about the way that the ten-foot-tall cyborg plowed through the jungle, and there couldn’t be given the war form’s size. So Santana bent his knees and sought shelter behind the T-2’s blocky head, as an army of branches and vines tried to rip him off the borg’s back. Could the enemy hear them coming? Absolutely, assuming that the tricky green bastards were somewhere nearby.

  But the alternative was to follow one of the already-well-established jungle trails north toward the objective. That would be quieter, not to mention faster, but such paths were almost certain to be booby-trapped and kept under constant surveillance by the enemy. So, cutting a new trail through the jungle was the better choice, or so it seemed to Santana.

  Of course, the key to implementing that strategy was the use of the Integrated Tactical Command (ITC) system that allowed the aggressor team to “see” each other electronically, even though it was necessary for each cyborg to maintain an interval of at least a hundred yards between themselves and other units so that a single artillery mission wouldn’t be sufficient to kill all of them.

  So when the ITC suddenly went down, Santana’s unit was not only too spread out to provide each other with line-of-sight fire support, but vulnerable in a number of other ways as well. . . . The officer felt something heavy land in the pit of his stomach, and he was just about to issue an order, when Corporal Gomez placed a hand on his shoulder. The unexpected contact caused Santana to jump as his mind was forced to break the connection with the virtual world and reintegrate itself with the real one. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” the noncom said. “But it looks like the brass hats want to noodle with you now. One of the Indi’s shuttles is waiting to take you dirtside.”

  “Don’t ever do that again,” Santana said, as he pulled the VR helmet up off of his head. “I nearly had a heart attack.”

  Gomez tried to look contrite but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Yes, sir, that is no, sir. I won’t do that again. Now, no offense, sir, but we need to board that shuttle.”

  Santana put the helmet down, removed the VR gauntlets, and stood. “We?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gomez answered evenly. “I took the liberty of having myself assigned to your command. I hope that’s okay.”

  The cavalry officer frowned. His father had been an NCO, and he knew from experience that senior enlisted people could pull all sorts of strings if they chose to do so. But Gomez was too junior to have arranged such a posting on her own. “Was Major Lassiter a party to this arrangement by any chance?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Gomez said expressionlessly. “The major said that we deserve each other. Sir.”

  The comment could be taken in a lot of different ways, and Santana was forced to grin. “Okay, Corporal, but you may live to regret that decision. Let’s get our T-1 bags and board that shuttle. I don’t know why the brass are so eager to see us, but it can’t be good.”

  It was dark when the shuttle emerged from a blinding snowstorm to hover over one of Fort Camerone’s landing platforms. Nav lights glowed, and repellers screamed as the ship lowered itself into a cloud of billowing steam. Thanks to the fact that it was so cold, and the visibility was poor, the shuttle managed to touch down without taking sniper fire from the neighboring hills.

  Only one person was present to meet the incoming ship—but the Hudathan was big enough to qualify as a reception party all by himself. His name was Drik Seeba-Ka. Major Drik Seeba-Ka, and he recognized Santana the moment the human emerged from the shuttle. What illumination there was came from one of the spaceship’s wing lights as Santana approached the other officer. Coming as he did from one of the most hostile planets in known space, the Hudathan had no need for a parka. What might have been an expression of amusement flickered within his deep set eyes as the human dropped his T-1 bag and came to attention. “Captain Antonio Santana reporting as ordered, sir!”

  “Stand easy,” Seeba-Ka said as he returned the salute. “You’re just as ugly as the last time I saw you.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Santana replied, and staggered as a massive hand slapped him on the back. The Hudathan made a grinding noise, which, based on previous experience, the human knew to be laughter.

  “And who is this?” Seeba-Ka wanted to know, as Gomez arrived at the bottom of the ramp with her T-1 bag strapped to her back.

  “Please allow me to introduce Corporal Gomez,” Santana replied dryly. “But watch your step. . . . She doesn’t like officers.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” the Hudathan growled. “Welcome to Algeron, Corporal. I’m sure the fort will be that much safer now that you’re here to help guard it.”

  But Gomez didn’t want to guard the fort—or anything else for that matter. She wanted to be with Santana. Partly because the noncom felt she owed the officer, partly because he appeared to be competent, and partly for reasons she wasn’t ready to fully confront yet. So the noncom was about to object when Santana saw the look in her eye and hurried to intervene. “Report to the transient barracks, Corporal. I’ll track you down.”

  Gomez heard the promise that was implicit in the officer’s last sentence, took comfort from it, and managed a respectful, “Yes, sir.”

  Santana nodded, bent to retrieve his bag, and followed the Hudathan down into the fortress below. Gomez looked up into the thickly falling snow, felt a half dozen flakes kiss her face, and cursed her own stupidity. Joining the Legion had been stupid. Continually fighting the system was stupid. And falling in love with an officer was the stupidest thing of all.

  The conference room was empty when Seeba-Ka and Santana entered. But it wasn’t long before other people began to arrive, and the cavalry officer was introduced to Military Chief of Staff, General Bill Booly III, his chief of staff, Colonel Kitty Kirby, billionaire Admiral Sergi Chien-Chu, and Intelligence Chief Margaret Rutherford Xanith, plus a handful of trusted specialists. Missing from the meeting was Hudathan Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who was off-planet.

  Santana had never been in a room with so many VIPs and didn’t want to be ever again. Especially since all of them were being deferential toward him, and he didn’t know why. Finally, after the door was closed, it was Booly who brought the meeting to order. He chose to stand rather than sit and eyed those in front of him. “Most of you have seen the photos taken on Jericho, but Captain Santana hasn’t. So bear with me as I bring the captain up to speed.”

  What followed was the most memorable briefing Santana was ever likely to receive. First came the news that an entire battle group had been lost to the Ramanthians, followed by shocking holos of President Nankool being marched through the jungle, with hundreds of POWs strung out ahead of and behind him. Santana felt his heart sink as he came to understand the true gravity of the situation, remembered all of the jungle-related VR scenarios he’d been forced to complete on the Indi, and knew why. Judging from the way in which he’d been treated, and the way all the VIPs were staring at him, he’d been selected to lead a rescu
e mission, the kind where a lot of people get killed trying to accomplish the impossible.

  Booly smiled grimly. “I can see from the expression on the captain’s face that he’s asking himself why he was selected for what looks like a suicide mission. Well,” the general continued, “the answer to that question is quite simple. The officer we’re looking for needs to have some unusual qualities. And when we ran the criteria through the BUPERS computer, six names popped up. The first was Antonio Santana’s. And no wonder—because very few of our officers have been awarded one Medal for Valor, never mind two, and a Distinguished Service Cross to boot!

  “But more important, from my perspective at least, is that fact that Captain Santana has the right sort of personality and experience to land on Jericho and free the president from captivity. Some might disagree,” Booly said heavily, as his eyes swept the table. “They might point to the fact that Captain Santana was court-martialed for disobeying a direct order during a combat tour in the Clone Hegemony. I would counter that the order that the captain objected to was morally wrong, and point out that it takes a lot more courage to disobey an illegal order than it does to obey one. Add to that the experience gained on LaNor under Major Seeba-Ka here, plus the nature of his service on Savas, and you can see why I sent for him.”

  “However,” Booly said, as his eyes returned to Santana, “there is a political component to this situation that could be even more dangerous than the mission itself. So, before you make up your mind, here’s the rest of it.”

  Santana listened in near disbelief as the Military Chief of Staff provided a verbal time line of events, including the strategy to conceal Nankool’s identity, and Vice President Jakov’s failure to authorize a rescue mission.

  Then, as the general completed his recitation, Chien-Chu stepped in. “I know this is a lot to absorb,” the entrepreneur said kindly. “But seven days have passed since Jakov first saw the pictures of Nankool being marched through the jungle. And we can’t wait much longer because each day brings the danger that one of the POWs will sell the president out. But if we send an unauthorized mission, then all of us could be charged with treason. And that includes you. So if you’re about to say no, which any logical person would, say it now.”

  Seeba-Ka didn’t consider himself to be an expert at reading human facial expressions. No Hudathan was. But the officer knew Santana pretty well. And, judging from what Seeba-Ka could see, the cavalry officer was preparing to say no. Not because of a lack of courage, but because he feared that an unauthorized rescue mission would be doomed to failure and result in unnecessary casualties.

  But unbeknownst to the others in the room Seeba-Ka had a secret weapon at his disposal. Because he’d been on LaNor with Santana and Vanderveen and seen the two humans together. Not something he wanted to use—but something he had to use. The Hudathan reached out to capture a remote. “Before you answer that question,” Seeba-Ka rumbled. “There’s one additional thing to consider. The president is important, but hundreds of other prisoners are being held on Jericho as well.”

  Santana’s eyes were drawn to a series of three-dimensional images as the holo blossomed in front of him.

  He saw Nankool pass by the lens, followed by half a dozen other faces, and one that caused his heart to stand still. Christine Vanderveen was being held on Jericho along with the president!

  Seeba-Ka saw the shock of it register on the human’s face and felt a sense of guilt mixed with a large measure of satisfaction.

  “That’s a good point, sir,” Santana said grimly. “Count me in.”

  7

  Only one thing is required of prisoners—and that is absolute obedience.

  —Yama Mutuu Commandant

  Camp Enterprise

  Standard year 2846

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  As the sun broke over the horizon and continued its journey into the sky, what looked like ectoplasm rose from the swampy ground to hover waist high around the ranks of prisoners lined up in front of the headquarters building. The POWs had been in what the Ramanthians liked to call “Camp Enterprise” for the better part of a week by then—and knew what to expect as they waited for Commandant Yama Mutuu to make his daily appearance. Outside of the jungle noises that emanated from the far side of the electrified fence and the hacking coughs that identified prisoners with walking pneumonia, the compound was eerily quiet. Because there were rules at Camp Enterprise, hundreds of them, one of which mandated a state of respectful silence prior to and during the commandant’s morning pronouncements.

  The whole thing was complete nonsense. That’s what Overseer Tragg thought as he stood to one side and eyed the prisoners through his dark goggles. But, truth be told, he was subject to the same rules the POWs were. Because in spite of the weapons he wore and the robots positioned behind him, the mercenary was a prisoner, too. A prisoner to his fire-ravaged body, his gambling debts, and the fact that he couldn’t leave Jericho without Mutuu’s permission. All of which were things that he resented.

  Christine Vanderveen stood in the second row not far from President Nankool. With help from Commander Peet Schell the LG (Leadership Group) was careful to keep reliable people around the chief executive at all times. Not to protect him from the Ramanthians, since that was impossible, but to shield Nankool from his fellow POWs. Because some of them had psychological problems and were unpredictable.

  Worse yet was the possibility that short rations, poor health care, and miserable living conditions would cause one of the prisoners to reveal Nankool’s true identity in exchange for more favorable treatment. A threat that was likely to intensify during the days, weeks, and months to come. Because short of an all-out victory by the Confederacy, Vanderveen couldn’t see any hope of freedom.

  The diplomat’s thoughts were interrupted as a Ramanthian shuffled up a ramp onto the covered porch that fronted the long, low, prefab building, and took an intricately carved stick down from its pegs. Then, with all of the dignity of the Queen’s chamberlain welcoming the monarch home from a long journey, the soldier struck the metal tube that hung next to the structure’s front door. That produced the first of what were to be three melodic notes. As the last of them died away Commandant Mutuu emerged to address what he saw as his subjects.

  Mutuu was related to the Queen, but permanently lost to his delusions of grandeur and other eccentricities. Which was why the functionary had been sent to Jericho, where his frequently embarrassing gaffes would be less visible to the Ramanthian public. One of his quirks was on full display as the elaborately dressed alien shuffled out onto the porch followed by a similarly costumed War Mutuu.

  The twenty-five-foot-long strips of glittering cloth that had been ceremoniously wound around the Ramanthians’ insectoid bodies were replicas of the war banners that the Queen’s ancestors had carried into the Battle of Water-Deep, during which the pretenders had been slaughtered, thereby bringing all of the nest-clans under a single ruler. A proud moment and one that Yama Mutuu celebrated each morning by wearing the now-antiquated royal winding. No one knew whether the normally taciturn War Mutuu actively supported the practice or simply went along with it in order to please his mate.

  Like most members of the royal court, Mutuu spoke standard but did so in short bursts, as if firing bullets from an air-cooled machine gun. “Greetings, loyal subjects,” the royal began, as he looked out over what he momentarily perceived to be an army of brave Ramanthian warriors. “I have good news for you. The glorious enterprise is about to begin! Ships are dropping into orbit even as I speak. That means the supplies you need will arrive soon! Work will begin immediately thereafter. That will be all.”

  The Ramanthian soldier struck the gong as the commandant turned his back to the prisoners, and the War Mutuu followed him inside. Hooks, who was standing to Vanderveen’s left, spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “What the hell was that all about?”

  But there was no opportunity to discuss Mutuu’s comments as Tragg strode out to
stand in front of them. His voice was amplified by the sphere-shaped monitors that swept out to hover over the POWs. But the machines were slightly out of phase, which generated an echo when Tragg spoke. “That’s right,” the overseer said flatly. “The vacation is almost over. The Ramanthians are going to construct a space elevator about a mile from here. Once completed, it will be used to bring millions of tons of supplies and construction materials down from orbit.”

  The overseer paused to let the words sink in. “But working under zero-gee conditions requires experience, something the other slaves on Jericho lack. That’s why the Ramanthians hired me. And that’s why they permitted you to live. In order to work or to die. The choice is up to you.”

  A murmur of resentment ran through the ranks but stopped when Commander Schell shouted, “As you were!” And the first roll call of the day began.

  After that it was off to chow, where the prisoners lined up to receive their share of the hot bubbling cereal that was served three times a day. All hoped to find two or three pieces of gray unidentifiable meat in their portions of the “boil,” but that was rare unless they were friends with a “scoop.” Meaning one of the prisoners assigned to scoop food out of the cauldron and deposit it on the metal plates.

  And since Vanderveen was pretty, and most of the kitchen workers were male, it wasn’t unusual for them to take her serving from the bottom of the cauldron, where the larger chunks of meat could typically be found. That wasn’t right, and it made Vanderveen feel guilty, until she began to divide the chunks of meat into two portions. One serving for herself and the other for the increasing number of POWs housed in the dispensary—a structure consisting of a tin roof mounted on wooden poles, walls constructed from interwoven saplings, and a raised floor. A miserable place that the prisoners called “God’s Waiting Room,” since the majority of the people sent there died soon thereafter.