When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  “Maybe,” Nankool allowed cautiously, “and maybe not. Remember, Madame X works for me, and I know what she expects of her operatives. And she wouldn’t be very happy if one of them were to spend all his time waiting for information to come his way. She would argue that it was Batkin’s duty to enter the camp. Regardless of what might follow. Let’s hear the rest of what he has to say before arriving at any conclusions.”

  Hooks didn’t like the answer, but there wasn’t much the secretary could do except fume, as Batkin prepared to resume his narrative. A rather tricky moment, because the spy not only knew who Hooks was, but why the official wanted to preempt the report. “Why listen to my secondhand account,” Batkin inquired rhetorically, “when you can watch the real thing?”

  That was when a holo blossomed over the cyborg and the entire LG was treated to a shot of a man’s back with Tragg beyond. Hooks felt a moment of relief, but that emotion was short-lived as his voice was heard, and the rest of the group turned to stare at him. “I think the sonofabitch is going to run,” Batkin remarked mildly. However, Hooks was already in motion by then—and Vanderveen was the only person between the senior diplomat and the door.

  But if Hooks thought he could run the blond over and make a dash for Tragg’s prefab, he was sadly mistaken. Because rather than wait for the two-hundred-pound man to overpower her—the diplomat threw her body into the air and hit the official with what could only be described as a flying tackle. Vanderveen had the breath knocked out of her as both of them crashed to the floor.

  Hooks struggled to extricate himself, and was just about to do so, when Schell and Nankool got ahold of him. The traitorous official attempted to call for help at that point, but took a blow to the jaw and was soon subdued. Ironically, it was Calisco, the very man Vanderveen had been so suspicious of, who helped her up off the floor.

  Batkin would have smiled had he been able to do so. “Where was I? Ah yes, the holo!” The recording reappeared at that point, giving everyone present the opportunity to hear Hooks cut his deal and see the turncoat’s face as he stood. Nankool was shocked. “Damn it, Roland . . . Why?”

  “Because you’re going to die anyway,” Hooks said dispiritedly. “Can’t you see that? Especially after today?”

  “What I see is a traitor,” Nankool answered coldly. “Yes, every single one of us may die here. . . . But who knows? Maybe one of Batkin’s message torps got through. Perhaps help will come. But regardless of that, we have a war to fight—and we’re going to fight it.”

  Schell frowned. “Sorry, sir. But I’m not sure I follow. We’re prisoners, so how can we fight?”

  “The space elevator,” Nankool replied grimly. “The bugs need it—and we’re going to destroy it. But not until they have invested lots of time, work, and money in it.”

  There was a moment of silence after that, followed by grim laughter, as half a dozen POWs nodded in unison. Unlikely though it might seem, the prisoners had declared war on their captors, and the first battle had been won.

  It was about four hours later, when even Tragg was asleep, that something landed on the fence and the camp’s alarms went off. More than a dozen Ramanthian guards were already busy trying to remove the badly charred body when the overseer arrived on the scene. Given the fact that the guards were under strict orders to keep the fence electrified at all times, it was necessary to pry the corpse loose with long wooden poles.

  Only when that process was complete, and the corpse fell free, was it possible to make a positive identification. Tragg felt something cold trickle into his veins as he looked down into the traitor’s staring eyes. Why? the overseer wanted to know. Why would a man who was about to go free take a run at an electrified fence?

  But Hooks was dead, none of the guards could speak standard, and the people who knew the answer were elsewhere. Mutuu made a brief appearance, but being ignorant of the agreement between Hooks and Tragg, took the episode at face value and soon went back to bed. Finally, as the jungle creatures screamed and hooted, the long, bloody day came to an end.

  9

  A brave Captain is a root, out of which, as branches, the courage of his soldiers doth spring.

  —Sir Philip Sidney Standard year 1580

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Captain Antonio Santana lay belly-down on a layer of ice-encrusted scree and stared through a pair of Legion-issue binos. Each time the crosshairs passed over an object, its range and heat index appeared next to the image. Santana knew that the long U-shaped valley below him had been gouged out of Algeron’s surface by a retreating glacier roughly ten thousand standard years earlier. Then, perhaps nine thousand years subsequent to that, a tribe of nomads wandered into the basin and decided to stay. And, thanks to the hand-dug well from which the community took its name, the settlers eventually developed a dooth-powered, pump-driven water distribution system.

  It took hundreds of years of backbreaking work to clear the fields of rock, build the stone walls that split the valley into a patchwork quilt of family farms, and construct the low one- and two-story homes that were so markedly different from the subsurface dwellings typical of most Naa villages.

  All of which explained why Deepwell had prospered, not only as a center of agriculture but as a bustling market town. Until two standard weeks earlier when a large contingent of bandits under the leadership of a Naa named Nofear Throatcut seized control of the town. Deepwell’s warriors had given a good account of themselves according to Nostop Footfast—the Naa youth who lay to Santana’s right. But given the element of surprise, and a force of 150 heavily armed fighters, the bandits won the battle with ease. And that was when the hellish rampage of murder, rape, and theft began.

  It took Footfast the better part of seven standard days to reach the nearest village, where the elders passed word of the outrage along to Senator Nodoubt Truespeak, who brought the matter to General Booly. And it was then that Santana caught wind of the situation and requested permission to lead Team Zebra against the bandits. Not out of a sense of altruism but a very real need to test his newly formed company against an enemy that could shoot back. And who better to test a group of convicted criminals against than another group of criminals?

  And the timing was perfect, because after weeks of waiting, a rescue mission had finally been authorized. And not a moment too soon. . . . Because having learned that Nankool was alive, the cabal had been about to load Team Zebra onto one of Chien-Chu’s freighters and send them to Jericho without permission when the order came down. Some of the conspirators felt that the rescue force should depart immediately in spite of Santana’s request for a combat mission, but General Booly counseled patience. He pointed out that if some part of Team Zebra was going to break, it would be far better to identify the flaw on Algeron than somewhere on the surface of Jericho.

  Which was why Santana found himself about to lead his ragtag company against a gang of criminals. Clever criminals in this case, who, rather than pillage Deepwell and leave, had taken up temporary residence there. A low key presence intended to lure unsuspecting caravans into the village, where they could be slaughtered.

  “What do you see?” Footfast wanted to know, as he thought about his family. His father had been killed during the initial attack. He knew that because he’d seen the body. But what about his mother? And his sister? The bandits did horrible things to females—and there was a profound emptiness at the pit of the youngster’s stomach as he looked out over the valley.

  “The village looks normal,” Santana answered honestly, as he panned the binos from left to right. “Except for the fact that the streets are virtually empty, new stone walls have been constructed, and the holding pens are jam-packed with dooths.”

  “We must attack,” Footfast said firmly. “Give me a weapon. . . . I will go first.”

  Santana lowered the binos as another two-hour-and-forty-two-minute day started to fade. “You are very brave,” the legionnaire said soberly. “But it will take more than
bravery to win. We must be smart as well.”

  The Naa had silvery fur with horizontal streaks of black on his cheeks. His pupils were yellow. “You have a plan?”

  “Yes,” Santana answered. “I have a plan.”

  The council room where the village chieftain and the elders met to resolve disputes, plan for the future, and bemoan the taxes that the new government had started to impose had been transformed into a chamber of horrors. The air stank of alcohol, vomit, and urine. Large sections of the wooden floor were sticky with congealed blood, and nit bugs were feeding on it.

  The bandit leader was seated at the west end of the room, in the large almost thronelike wooden chair normally reserved for the village chief. A rather unfortunate old geezer, who along with the rest of his council, was suspended along the hall’s northern wall. It was an excellent vantage point from which to watch the eight females who hung spreadeagled along the south wall, where they had been systematically gang-raped. Two of them were unconscious, and most had had been cut, burned, or beaten. Eventually, when his warriors began to complain, Throatcut would order up a new batch of playthings. But the dozen or so warriors who were currently pleasuring themselves with the females seemed happy enough, so there was no need to summon additional villagers as yet.

  The thronelike chair, as well as its position on a raised platform, provided Throatcut with an unobstructed view of the head-high pile of loot stacked in front of him. Some of it wasn’t all that valuable. The brass incense burners and copper cookware were good examples. But there was plenty of silver, too, the Naa thought to himself, as he took another swig of beer. Not to mention some gold, and lots of Legion-issued coinage, which could be exchanged for the new money that the government had promised to release. Much of the loot had been taken from unsuspecting caravans that continued to enter Throatcut’s trap.

  But nothing lasts forever. The bandit leader knew that and was already working on a new plan. His original gang of desperados had been so successful that entire bands of brigands had requested permission to join up, thereby swelling his overall force to about a 170 warriors. Approximately twenty of whom had been killed during the assault on Deepwell. That left Throatcut with a force of about 150, which seemed like a good thing at first, but was actually something of a two-edged sword. Because while the bigger force enabled Throatcut to tackle large settlements like Deepwell, it also meant a lot of mouths to feed, and it was bound to attract unwanted attention.

  So, rather than keep the entire force together, the bandit was contemplating the possibility of splitting it into three fifty-warrior units when a breathless Salwa Obobwa passed through the door at the far end of the long rectangular room and hurried forward. “Hey, boss,” the human said, as he stopped just short of the platform. “Doothman says a caravan is coming in from the north. We’re talking six heavily loaded wagons, maybe fifty dooths, and a Legion-surplus RAV (Robotic All-terrain Vehicle).”

  Throatcut frowned. “What about guards?”

  Obobwa shrugged. “The usual. About twelve warriors, all armed with rifles, plus half a dozen females.”

  The fact that the wagons were heavily loaded struck Throatcut as promising, but not as interesting as the wagons themselves, which were still something of a rarity on Algeron. Because it was only recently, during the last five years or so, that the main caravan routes had been improved to the point where dooth-drawn conveyances were practical. And Throatcut could make use of the wagons to transport his loot to a safer location. As for the RAV, well, that would constitute something of a bonus, since the four-legged robot could handle rough terrain and transport up to four thousand pounds’ worth of freight while doing so. His freight, since the notion of separating his share of the loot from all the rest appealed to Throatcut, who had very little reason to trust his subordinates.

  “Okay,” the bandit leader responded. “Assign someone to sort this pile of loot. The cheap stuff stays here. Everything else will go onto the wagons once we capture them. Confiscate all the booze. I want our people sober when the fighting starts. Check every warrior and every weapon. Fill their bellies with a hot meal and position them the same way you did last time. And tell Deaver to load Lindo’s missiles. You never know when one of the Legion’s fly-forms might happen by.”

  That was a lot to accomplish in a relatively short period of time, but Obobwa knew better than to complain. “Okay, boss,” the human replied obediently. “I’m on it.”

  In spite of the fact that he was a cavalry officer, Santana had never ridden a dooth before and was extremely conscious of the fact that the big woolly beast was in charge as it carried him south. Fortunately, the animal was relatively docile and capable of navigating the road on its own. That left the heavily swathed human to rock back and forth in concert with the dooth’s movements while he eyed the countryside ahead, terrain he had already seen and memorized thanks to the satellite imagery provided by Madame X. The first obstacles to overcome were a pair of stone fortresses located to either side of the road just north of the village. The “twins,” as they were known, were three stories high, and served to anchor the thick stone walls that extended both east and west. The fortifications had originally been constructed to protect Deepwell’s residents from neighbors to the north. But those days were largely over, which meant that the big iron-strapped gates remained open most of the time, allowing caravans to pass through. Real caravans, unlike the procession of six wagons and a single RAV that were strung out behind Santana.

  There were no signs of activity on or around the blocky fortifications as the legionnaires drew closer. But the officer could feel the weight of bandit eyes as they scrutinized every detail of the approaching caravan. And even though Santana and his bio bods were bundled up Naa style, their faces being concealed by the long scarves that the locals typically wore, the legionnaire continued to worry that some detail of equipage would give his troops away. An assault weapon that was too new, the way the wagons were sprung, or any of a thousand other details.

  Because even though Santana was confident that he and his troops could fight their way into Deepwell, he wanted to avoid that if at all possible. First, because the element of surprise was more likely to deliver a quick and decisive victory. Secondly, because the people of Deepwell had already suffered greatly, and the legionnaire hoped to retake their village without leveling the community in the process. And third, because the officer wanted Team Zebra to understand the importance of finesse. A quality that would be critical on Jericho.

  And so it was that dooths snorted, wagons creaked, and RAV servos whined as the caravan passed between the twin towers and followed the gently curving road down the center of the valley toward the apparently peaceful village beyond. Except that it wasn’t peaceful—as the scrambled transmission made clear. “X-Ray Two to Alpha Six,” a female voice said casually. “I have you on LW-6 almost directly overhead. Hostiles five-five, repeat five-five, are assembled on the right side of the main road as it passes through the village. An unknown number of hostiles are hidden inside structures as well. The rest of bandit force Delta is located at the south end of the village facing north. Over.”

  Santana clicked his transmit button twice by way of an acknowledgment. By lining up along one side of the road, the bandits hoped to kill the incoming bio bods without firing on their own people. And, if he and his companions were lucky enough to survive that assault, another trap was waiting at the south end of the valley. Throatcut is careful, Santana thought to himself. You have to give the bastard that.

  But Santana had no intention of leading the first platoon into a free-fire zone. So as his dooth drew level with the first east-west side street, the legionnaire issued orders. “Alpha Six to Alpha Two-Six, and Alpha Three-Six. Plan A. Streets left and right. Execute. Over.”

  There was a series of clicks as Sergeants Maria Gomez and Husulu Ibo-Da acknowledged the order. The first wagon followed Santana as he turned left. The second went right, and so forth, until the entire caravan had disap
peared off Deepwell’s main street. That was when more orders were issued, and the heavy tarpaulins were thrown aside as the T-2s rolled off the transports and activated their weapons.

  There were seven cyborgs in all, three to a squad, plus Santana’s mount. Her name was Norly Snyder. She had been a corporal back when the two first met on LaNor. Running into her at Fort Camerone had been the result of good luck. But removing the borg from the outfit to which she’d been assigned had taken pull. The kind of high-gee pull that only someone like General Bill Booly could exert.

  So as Santana slid down off the big dooth and handed the reins to Footfast, the big Trooper II was ready and waiting. The officer was in a hurry as he took his place behind the cyborg’s big blocky head and plugged into the T-2’s com system. “Alpha Six to Alpha Two-Six and Alpha Three-Six,” the officer said. “Let’s stick to the plan. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Gomez responded. “Two-Six out.”

  “I copy,” Ibo-Da added. “Three-Six out.”

  And with that simple acknowledgment a unit that consisted of a crooked gambler, a convicted murderer, a sexual psychopath, a raving man-hater, a suicidal cyborg, and a woman who had tortured two Ramanthian prisoners to death swung into action. Meanwhile, a group of Naa volunteers gathered the first squad’s dooths together and prepared to defend themselves if attacked.

  Throatcut knew something was wrong by that time and had already begun to respond. “It’s a trick!” the one-armed Naa shouted over his handheld com set. “Close with them! Kill them now!”

  But the invading T-2s were already in motion by then. Santana led the first squad east, and Snyder had already turned the corner of the last building, when a group of bio bods boiled out of a side street. Rather than pause, as the hostiles might have expected her to, Snyder ran straight at them. The distance closed with surprising speed as the cyborg brought an arm up and began to fire her .50-caliber machine gun. The entire front rank went down like wheat to a thresher. That caused the second rank to break and scatter.