When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

But the process wasn’t pretty. Santana was forced to bring one belligerent T-2 to her knees with a zapper, three bio bods were shot while trying to escape, and Gomez beat a fourth senseless when he made a grab for her. And there were less-dramatic washouts as well: soldiers who refused to work with people they didn’t like, attempted to shirk their duties, or refused to obey orders. Every twelve hours the latest group of drops, plus an appropriate number of guards, were shipped back to Fort Camerone, where they were isolated from the rest of the prisoners so that word of what was taking place wouldn’t reach Jakov.

  Finally, once the original group had been winnowed down to the final twenty-four, Santana was ready to begin the next phase of training. But first, before additional gear was distributed, an evening of celebration was in order. It arrived in the form of two fly-forms. One was loaded with weapons, ammo, and other equipment. The other carried a keg of beer, two D-4020 Dream Machines that the borgs could hook up to, and hot meals straight out of Fort Camerone’s kitchens.

  And, as Santana watched, two officers jumped down off the second fly-form and made their way over. Santana saluted General Bill Booly, who introduced First Lieutenant Alan Farnsworth, a man who was clearly too old for his rank. “The lieutenant just graduated from OCS (Officer Training School),” Booly shouted over the engine noise. “But don’t let that fool you because he put in twelve years as a noncom before that! You need a platoon leader, and here he is. I would trust him with my life.”

  The comment implied a previous relationship, and some level of sponsorship as well, which was all right with Santana so long as Farnsworth could deliver the goods. And, as the two men shook hands, the officer liked what he saw. Farnsworth’s face was a road map of sun-etched lines, his nose had clearly been broken more than once, and half of his left ear was missing. But the most important thing was the intelligence resident in the other man’s gray eyes as he waited to see how his new CO would react.

  “Welcome to Team Zebra,” Santana said warmly. “I can sure as hell use someone with your experience. . . . And, if I trip over a rock, the team will be in good hands.”

  Farnsworth grinned and seemed to relax slightly, as if he’d been unsure of how the academy graduate might react to getting saddled with a prior. “Thank you, sir. . . . I’m looking forward to the opportunity. Sort of.”

  All of three of them laughed as the fly-forms lifted off, snowflakes swirled, and darkness closed around them.

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  The rain began during the hours of darkness, continued as the dimly seen sun rose somewhere beyond the thick overcast, and turned the entire area around Camp Enterprise into a morass of thick, glutinous mud. The muck was so thick it formed clumps around the prisoners’ boots and forced them to lift a couple of extra pounds each time they took a step. The result was a slow-motion parody of work that was unlikely to produce anything more than sick POWs, which would threaten Tragg’s ability to stay on schedule, make money, and get off Jericho. That was why the overseer felt compelled to make the pilgrimage to the headquarters building, where the mercenary requested an audience with the commandant and was eventually shown into the richly decorated throne room. But only after removing his boots, washing both his hands and feet, and submitting to a pat-down. Then, careful to bow his head submissively, the overseer made his request. “Given the weather conditions, Excellency, and all of the mud, I recommend that we suspend operations until the rain stops.”

  The position of Mutuu’s antennae signaled contempt. “So it’s raining,” the commandant replied scornfully. “Animals need rain! It keeps them clean. We have a schedule to maintain, human. So maintain it. Or, would you like to join the rest of your cowardly kind, as they live out their lives in the jungle?”

  Tragg had been forced to leave his weapons at the front door, but it would have been easy to kill the commandant bare-handed, and the thought was very much on the overseer’s mind as the dark goggles came up. But the War Mutuu was waiting with sword drawn. “Yes, human?” the alien grated. “Is this your day to die?”

  So Tragg was forced to withdraw, and to do so without honor, which made him very angry. Because different though they were in most respects, the human and the War Mutuu had one thing in common, and that was their overweening pride.

  The result was a silent fury that was visited upon the prisoners in the form of orders to draw their tools, march to the edge of the jungle, and resume the task of clearing more land for the airstrip. Meanwhile, on the other side of the electrified fence, Vanderveen could see a band of ragged civilians who were busy excavating one of the structures that the forerunners had left behind. The activity didn’t make sense until Commander Schell pointed out that the ancient building would make an excellent anchor for the space elevator’s cable. Never mind the fact that doing so might compromise or destroy what could be an extremely important archeological site. The Ramanthians had five billion new citizens to accommodate, and their needs had priority.

  The all-pervasive mud sucked at the soles of Vanderveen’s boots as the diplomat made her way over to the point where a team of “mules” were hauling loose debris out of the cutting zone and into the middle of the clearing. That was where Calisco was, so that was where Vanderveen wanted to be, since the FSO was determined to keep an eye on the shifty bastard. There were no objections as the diplomat grabbed on to a length of slippery rope and added her strength to that of the prisoners attempting to drag a heavily loaded sled across the water-soaked ground.

  Calisco was pulling on the other length of rope, just six feet away from her, and as Vanderveen struggled to make some forward progress she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Was the official slacking? Just pretending to pull? It was difficult to tell, but yes, the diplomat thought that he was. Still, who didn’t ease off at one time or another, especially if they were feeling ill?

  Tragg was nowhere to be seen as the day progressed, but didn’t need to be, since he could not only watch the work via the robotic monitors but comment on it as well. Which he did frequently. The clouds parted around midday, and the rain stopped.

  A thick, undulating mist hung over the muddy field as Oliver Batkin watched the prisoners leave the work site to collect their ration of gruel. The spy had stationed himself high in a tree and had been there for some time. The cyborg was well aware of the space elevator by that point, having listened in on various conversations that pertained to it, and knew that the project was worth reporting to Algeron. Especially if the government was going to send a rescue mission. Unless neither one of his message torps had arrived that is. . . . Which was why the third vehicle would carry both the information sent earlier and everything he had been able to learn about the space elevator.

  But before the message went out Batkin was determined to go for a bonus. Tragg had been interviewing five to ten prisoners per night. . . . The question was why? And what about the Ramanthians? What if anything could be learned from them?

  All of this seemed to suggest the need for a dangerous but potentially profitable trip into the compound during the hours of darkness. Of course there would be the monitors to deal with, not to mention Tragg’s Sheen robots. But, thanks to all the cloaking technology built into his body, the spy was confident that he could escape electronic detection. The more significant danger was that an especially alert guard would make visual contact with him and give the alarm.

  So, cognizant of the fact that he might be caught, Batkin uploaded everything he had to one of his remaining message torps and programmed the device to depart in sixteen hours should no further instructions be forthcoming. With that accomplished, there was nothing to do but sit and wait while the POWs continued their work.

  It was hot by then, and extremely humid, as the ragged bio bods struggled to enlarge the airfield. Meanwhile, even though it wasn’t large enough to accommodate more than two aircraft at a time, the Ramanthians took advantage of the clear skies to bring in shuttle after fully loaded shuttle, each of which had to b
e unloaded. A process Vanderveen found to be very interesting indeed since she had followed Calisco over to the new task and was present when crates full of human space armor began to come off the shuttles. Once on the ground, each container had to be transported to the metal-roofed structures bordering one side of the strip. A task normally handled with machinery that was presently bogged down in the mud.

  There was no way to know where the stuff was from without being able to read the bar codes printed on the crates, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the material had been captured. It was still another indication of the extent to which the bugs were winning the war.

  And it was while Vanderveen and eleven other prisoners were plodding across the well-churned mud that Tragg appeared. Everyone knew the overseer was pissed—but no one could say why. So most of the prisoners tried to fade into the background as Tragg and two of his robotic bodyguards wandered out onto the airstrip. “Uh-oh,” the rating next to Vanderveen said, as the overseer appeared. “Here comes trouble.” And the comment quickly proved to be prophetic as a none-too-bright sailor named Bren Hotkey chose that particular moment to step behind a crate and take a pee.

  Tragg saw the movement, felt a welcome sense of outrage, and made a beeline for the crate. Work continued, albeit at a slower pace, as everyone who could watched to see what would happen next. Vanderveen was no exception. Her heart went out to the hapless rating, as Tragg disappeared from sight only to emerge dragging Hotkey behind him. The robots came into play at that point as they took control of the human and frog-marched the irate sailor toward one of the shuttles. “Let me go!” Hotkey protested loudly. “All I did was take a whiz. . . . What’s wrong with that?”

  But the machines made no reply as the sailor was positioned next to the shuttle and his wrists cuffed in front of him. Then there was a mutual moment of horror as Tragg dropped a noose over the young man’s head, secured the other end of the rope to a landing skid, and walked out to the point where the Ramanthian pilots could see him. A single thumbs-up was sufficient to signal the all clear—and Commander Schell began to run as the shuttle wobbled off the ground.

  Hotkey ran along below the aircraft as it began to move, but couldn’t possibly keep up, and was soon snatched off his feet as the ship began to climb. The rating struggled to loosen the noose, but that was impossible, so there was little more that Hotkey could do than kick his legs as he was borne away to the east. The movement stopped moments later, and the body became little more than a dangling dot that was soon lost to sight.

  There was nothing Commander Schell could do at that point but stop running and place his hands on his knees as Tragg brought a microphone up to his mouth. His voice boomed over the robotic PA system. “Pee in your pants if you have to. . . . But keep working. That will be all.”

  Commandant Mutuu, who had witnessed the entire episode via one of his pole-mounted security cams, nodded approvingly and ordered an attendant to pour even more hot sand into his daily bath. Jericho might be primitive by imperial standards, but there was no reason to suffer. The day wore on.

  8

  True excellence is to plan secretly, to move surreptitiously, to foil the enemy’s intentions and balk his schemes. . . .

  —Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Standard year circa 500 B.C.

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  As the orange-red disk slipped below the western horizon, and the already-long shadows cast by the buildings spread out to encompass the entire camp, the night creatures began a discordant symphony of screams, hoots, and grunts. And it was then, on the cusp between day and night, that the spy ball fired his repellers and emerged from his hiding place. Thanks to the cloaking technology built into his body, Oliver Batkin was fairly confident he could escape electronic detection. But that wouldn’t render him invisible to the Ramanthian guards, or to the security cameras perched atop tall poles.

  The moment Batkin crossed the fence, the cyborg dropped down so he was only a foot off the ground as he made his way toward the Ramanthian headquarters building. A journey that required the spy ball to hide in the shadows until the way was clear, speed across open ground, and then hide again. Each time Batkin did so, he expected to hear a shout, followed by the staccato rattle of gunfire, and a general alarm. But his movements went undetected, and the spy eventually found himself next to the building in which Commandant Mutuu lived and worked—an accomplishment that wouldn’t mean much unless he could get inside.

  Guards were stationed to either side of the front door, so that point of entry was blocked, as were the heavily barred windows. So Batkin fired his repellers, rose until he was even with the eaves, and followed the slanted roof upwards. Eventually the spy encountered a second pitched roof, which stood two feet above the first and sat atop its own supports. The vertical surfaces on both sides were covered with metal mesh intended to keep pests out while allowing hot humid air to escape from the rooms below.

  But it was also a way in, or soon would be, as Batkin extended a small torch and cut a hole in the mesh. The opening was way too small to admit his rotund form. But that didn’t matter because the cyborg had no need to enter personally. A small port irised open on the side of the agent’s body, and a tiny sphere darted out into the humid air and bobbed up and down as an evening breeze tugged at it. Having taken control of the spy-eye, Batkin sent the device through the newly created hole into the structure beyond. Then, thanks to onboard sensors, the cyborg could “see” what the tiny robot saw and “hear” what it heard as the remote sank into the gloom below. Since the bugs were too cheap, or too lazy, to build something better, the interior walls rose only partway to the ceiling. That allowed Batkin’s proxy to cruise the darkness while peering down into a succession of boxy spaces.

  Batkin saw what looked like a shadowy office, and a throne room, followed by a space that caused his nonexistent heart to jump. Because there, bathed in the light from a single glow cone, was a scale model of the space elevator! Complete with an orbital counterweight that dangled from a piece of string.

  After checking to ensure that the conference area was empty, Batkin sent the spy-eye down for a closer look and recorded everything the robot saw. Then, just as he was about to withdraw the proxy, additional lights came on as a pair of guards entered the room. There was just barely enough time to hide the spy-eye inside the miniature forerunner temple before the Ramanthian troopers sat down at the table and began to consume their dinners. Batkin cursed his luck but settled in to wait, knowing the bugs would leave the room when they were finished. And about thirty minutes later they did so. But not before making some rather derogatory remarks about the food, the sergeant of the guard’s ancestry, and life in the army.

  Thus freed, Batkin was able to propel the proxy out of the miniature temple, take a quick peek at Commandant Mutuu’s private quarters, and retrieve the remote from inside the building. At that point it was tempting to ignore objective two, retreat to the jungle, and upload what information he had. And it made sense to do so since the data on the space elevator would be of considerable interest to Madame X regardless of any rescue attempt.

  But having already risked so much to enter the compound, the spy was loath to leave without taking a crack at Tragg. The problem was that as the cyborg closed with the overseer, it was increasingly likely that one of the mercenary’s robots would “see” through the electronic cloak that surrounded him and alert the renegade to his presence. Then, even if he managed to escape, the spy would still be in trouble because the Ramanthians would launch a full-scale search.

  In the end it was a piece of good luck that helped Batkin reach a final decision. Klaxons began to sound as a shuttle roared overhead, and the pilot declared some sort of onboard emergency. That caused all eyes, including those that belonged to the guards, to swivel toward the adjoining airfield.

  And it was then, as the shuttle settled into a nest of flashing lights, that the spy flew a zigzag course over to the
prefab structure that housed Tragg and his robotic servants. A Sheen robot stood guard outside the hut but didn’t look up as Batkin passed over its head and came to rest on the crest of the peaked roof. The rather precarious perch required the cyborg to extend four stabilizers in order to keep his roly-poly body from rolling down the slope and off the edge below. The positioning was good, but not good enough, since the overseer’s structure lacked the overroof the admin building had. So, being unable to penetrate the prefab from above, Batkin sent the proxy down the far side of the roof to attempt a ground-level entry.

  The minibot was too small to carry cloaking technology, but it was also too small to generate a significant heat signature. That meant the robotic sentry experienced little more than a gentle buzzing sensation as its sensors were momentarily activated. The signal disappeared a couple of seconds later, however, which left the Sheen machine to conclude that the alert had been generated by a jungle rat, or a system anomaly. There was a persistent electronic overburden, however, as if something lay within detection range but wasn’t registering the way it should. So, consistent with its programming, the robot triggered a routine systems check.

  Meanwhile, having zipped in under the building, the tiny spy-eye cruised the length of a long supporting beam as Batkin peered up through cracks, gaps, and holes in the wood flooring. Finally, the agent found what he’d been searching for in the form of a small hole and sent his proxy up into the room above. It wasn’t safe to fly, so the marble-sized invader began to roll along the base of a wall instead, a maneuver that made Batkin so dizzy he was forced to pause occasionally and let his “head” clear.

  Eventually, having penetrated a well-lit room, Batkin brought the sphere-shaped spy-eye to a halt in the shadow cast by a centrally located table. A back could be seen above and opposite him. Tragg’s head and shoulders were visible beyond. Even though it was dark outside, the overseer was still wearing his goggles. Because he needed them? Or to look menacing? If so, it was working, because judging from the POW’s responses, he was clearly frightened.