When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Gomez nodded. “Yes, sir. And that’s when the major ordered Zavala to pull Hargo’s brain box and shelve it. Things began to get dicey at that point, but Sergeant Snyder was present, and she kept the lid on. But Hargo is a member of my squad, and your platoon. That’s why I’m here.”

  But there was another reason, and both of them knew it. Because while common at one time, the practice of “shelving,” as it was usually called, had officially been banned ten years earlier. And for good reason. Because without a war form or spider form to provide input to his senses, Hargo was effectively blind, deaf, and dumb while hooked to the high-tech life-support machine generally referred to as “the shelf.” A punishment that was not only cruel, but patently unfair, since there was no equivalent penalty for bio bods.

  And that made Santana angry, very angry, which Gomez could see in his eyes. Something that made the noncom proud but frightened, too, because she was afraid the XO would do something rash. It didn’t make sense because Gomez hated officers—and had no reason to feel protective toward one. No legitimate reason anyway. But the cavalry officer was oblivious to such concerns as he stood and ducked his head. “Thanks for the sitrep, Sergeant. I’ll have a word with the major. I’m sure we can straighten this out.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Gomez replied obediently. “Can I make a suggestion?”

  Santana paused. “Shoot.”

  “I think it would be a good idea to post an armed noncom in front of the ammo locker, sir.”

  Santana winced. “It’s that bad?”

  “The team is pretty pissed, sir. . . . And we have plenty of hotheads. So why take a chance?”

  “Point taken, Sergeant. Lieutenant Farnsworth is catching some Z’s—but it would be a good idea to roust him out. Tell him to arm Sergeants Snyder and Fox. Energy weapons only. . . . That should give any would-be mutineers reason to pause.”

  “And Hargo, sir?”

  “Leave him where he is for the moment,” Santana replied darkly. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Then he was gone.

  Having found the cabin assigned to him to be too small for comfort, DeCosta had commandeered a larger compartment originally intended to serve as a lounge for Thraki merchants. As Santana entered the compartment, the half-naked major was seated at one end of the long, narrow table that split the space in two, with his legs folded under him. DeCosta had short black hair, a single eyebrow, and a beard so heavy it would sprout stubble within an hour of being shaved. Though not a big man, the infantry officer had broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, and a pair of powerful arms. Judging from the way the major held himself, and the fact that his eyes were closed, it seemed that he was meditating.

  Karl Watkins was present as well. And given the fact that his right leg was laid out on the table in front of him, it appeared that the cyborg was performing maintenance on it. The civilian looked up as Santana entered, nodded politely, and returned to his work. A servo whined as his stylus touched a relay, and the waxy-looking foot flexed.

  Santana was just about to speak when DeCosta preempted him. “That’s a very distinctive cologne, Captain. . . . Perhaps it has escaped your attention, but God gave the Ramanthian race a very acute sense of smell. The average trooper could detect your presence from fifty feet away. . . . Something to think about, eh?” At that point DeCosta’s eyes snapped open as if to witness the other officer’s reaction.

  “That’s a good point, sir,” Santana allowed patiently. “Although the average Ramanthian trooper could smell my sweat, too. . . . So I’m not sure it would make much difference. But it’s a moot point since I never wear cologne in the field.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” DeCosta said self-righteously. “Now, how is the latest edit coming along?”

  “Most of the changes have been made,” Santana replied. “But that isn’t why I’m here. . . . Sergeant Gomez tells me that Lance Corporal Hargo stepped out of line.”

  “Yes, he did,” DeCosta replied gravely, as he methodically cracked his knuckles. “I took issue with the nonreg paint job that was being applied to his head. Then, after he told me to take the Legion’s regulations and shove them up my ass, I ordered one of your ruffians to shelve him. There’s nothing like a little time-out to teach these criminals a lesson. And it appears some lessons are in order, because during the short time I spent in the hold, I noticed at least half a dozen infractions. Some of which are quite serious. The possession of unauthorized weapons being an excellent example.”

  Santana clenched his fists to prevent his hands from shaking. Watkins was watching by then, and the cavalry officer knew that the cyborg could, and probably would, record the interchange. “Sir,” the cavalry officer began carefully. “Before you assumed command of Team Zebra, I authorized war paint for any cyborg rated completely satisfactory by his noncom, and gave my permission for bio bods to carry nonspec weapons so long as they carry a full load-out for their TO weapons. I neglected to check those exceptions with you, and I won’t make that mistake again. So, given that the fault was mine, I request permission to remove Hargo from the shelf.”

  “That was quite a speech,” DeCosta said, as his bare feet slapped the deck. “And you’re right. . . . You were at fault. For flouting regulations, contributing to an overall lack of discipline, and ignoring your responsibilities as an officer. All of which will be noted on your fitness report.”

  “Assuming he lives long enough to receive a fitness report,” Watkins put in dryly, as his leg rotated and locked itself into place.

  The comment took Santana by surprise—and earned Watkins a nasty look from DeCosta. “This conversation is between the captain and myself,” the major said primly. “And, as for Hargo, another hour on the shelf will do him a world of good. The fact that you gave him permission to wear war paint is no excuse for gross insubordination.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Santana agreed tightly. “But I would remind the major that unlike the use of war paint, or carrying a nonspec weapon, shelving constitutes a crime under the provisions of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And I refuse to comply with what I believe to be an illegal order.”

  DeCosta placed both fists on his hips. His eyes were dark with anger. “I read your P-1 file,” the major responded thickly. “The last time you disobeyed a direct order, you were court-martialed! And, by God, I’ll see that you are again!”

  “Those orders were issued by a bug,” Santana responded contemptuously. “A Ramanthian who ordered me to fire on innocent civilians. Now, sir, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to remove Hargo from the shelf.”

  “But why?” DeCosta demanded, as bluster gave way to genuine befuddlement. “God hates an abomination, which is to say anything unnatural, and what could be more unnatural than a cross between a man and a machine? We need the borgs right now, I realize that, but why coddle the creatures? Eventually, after the bugs have been eradicated, every one of their evil breed should be destroyed!”

  Santana looked at Watkins. “Are you recording?”

  The civilian made a face. “I am.”

  “Good,” the cavalry officer replied. “Save that stuff. . . . Assuming any of us survive, I look forward to playing that footage for General Booly.” And with that Santana turned to go.

  “Wait a sec,” the cyborg said. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I think I’ll move into the hold.”

  “No problem,” Santana answered. “You’ll be welcome there.”

  DeCosta fell to his knees after the heretics left and called upon God to strike the evil ones down. But if DeCosta’s God was listening, he, she, or it chose not to respond.

  THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47)

  The alien sky was so dark that it was almost black. The rain fell in sheets, and rattled on the top of the chauffeur-driven car, as it carried ex-ambassador Alway Orno along a highway of fused glass toward the dimly seen high-rise spaceport in the distance. Lightning stabbed a nearby hilltop, as if probing the planet for weak spots, but the
Ramanthian was happy. No, joyous, because within minutes, an hour at most, he and his sole-surviving mate would be reunited.

  Then he would take her home to the rental house in the country, a mostly comfortable place where she could rest while he went to Jericho. Yes, Mutuu could be and generally was a cantankerous old coot. But Orno remained confident that he could successfully manipulate the deluded royal into slaughtering the POWs and for free, too! That would allow Orno to keep Mutuu’s share of the fee.

  Once that task was complete, it would be time to return to Starfall, take delivery on the second payment, and book passage on a Thraki liner. There were colonies of Ramanthian expatriates out on the rim—some of which were said to be quite pleasant. Places where the residents were much more interested in how much money one had than the vagaries of imperial politics.

  In fact, based on what he’d heard, some of the settlements had chosen democratic forms of government. Who knows? Orno thought to himself. Maybe I’ll run for office, use my experience to good effect, and wind up better off than I was! Such were the Ramanthian’s thoughts as the car was forced to pause at a rain-drenched checkpoint before being allowed to enter the spaceport.

  An air car hovered above, and a multiplicity of eyes watched as the limo snaked its way across the shiny black tarmac toward the hangar beyond. But Orno was oblivious to such matters because his thoughts were focused on the future and the good times that lay ahead.

  The nearly empty office was part of a hangar, and while a bit colder than the Egg Orno might have wished, a lot more private than the main terminal would have been. And the aristocrat took comfort from the fact that her long voyage through space was finally at an end. As soon as the shuttle cleared Hive, and the cargo module had been transferred to the Thraki freighter, the Egg Orno had been released. But it wasn’t until the ship was in hyperspace, where the Queen couldn’t possibly touch her, that the aristocrat had been able to relax.

  What the Egg Orno didn’t realize, however, not at first anyway, was the fact that the merchant vessel was scheduled to make stops in two Ramanthian-held systems prior to the much-anticipated arrival off Starfall. Each stop raised the possibility that government agents would storm aboard and take her into custody. But they didn’t, and the freighter completed its journey without incident.

  And now, having been brought down to the surface of the planet, the Egg Orno was in an agony of suspense. Had her mate aged? Had she aged? Would they be happy? Could they be happy? Would she have servants? And what if she didn’t?

  All of those thoughts and many more swirled through the aristocrat’s mind as she stood in front of the Thraki-sized window and stared out across the tarmac at the rain-smeared lights beyond. True happiness was impossible without the War Orno, but at least she still had one mate, and that gave her life purpose.

  That was when the door opened, the Egg Orno turned, and felt an explosion of warmth in her chest. Because there, coming through the entranceway, was her beloved Alway! And, judging from the finery that he wore, things were going well indeed.

  The female hurried forward to stand inside the circle of intimacy where only mates could linger for more than a few seconds and allowed her antennae to absorb the wonderful cocktail of pheromones produced by her mate.

  And that’s where they were, wrapped in the chemical equivalent of an embrace, when two Ramanthian agents entered the room. They had been outside, waiting for Orno to enter, and water continued to drain off their poncho-style raincoats as they shuffled into the room. Both held silenced pistols. Alway turned to confront the assassins, but it was too late. “So,” Ifna Bamik said contemptuously. “Look what crawled out from under a rock. . . . All that was required to catch this vermin was the right kind of bait.”

  Orno felt his heart sink as he stepped sideways to shield the Egg Orno’s body with his own. He should have known. It had been too easy to get his mate off Hive. The whole thing was part of a plot to lure him out of hiding so government agents could kill him! But what about the Egg Orno? Did the assassins have orders to terminate her, too? Or could he buy her life? Both of their lives? It was worth a try. “Please,” the ex-diplomat said imploringly. “Don’t fire until you hear what I have to say. . . . I have information, extremely valuable information, that pertains to Marcott Nankool.”

  The War Bamik had heard it all before. The extravagant lies, the heartfelt pleas, and the shameless attempts at bribery. Yet none of those strategies had been successful because he was just as much a soldier as anyone in uniform and a patriot besides. A patriot who was in love with the godlike power that went with his profession. “Stop that,” the assassin said disgustedly. “Don’t embarrass yourself. . . . Not after such a long and colorful career. Yes, it would have been nice to die while taking a nice warm sand bath, but very few of us are granted that privilege. You’ll be happy to hear that both of us are excellent shots—so the whole thing will be over before you know it.”

  “Kill me if you must,” Orno replied earnestly. “But spare my mate. Her only crime is loyalty to me. Besides, what I said was true, I really do have information about President Nankool. Information that would be extremely valuable to the Ramanthian government!”

  Bamik glanced at his partner. “Did you hear that, Nondo? Some people simply refuse to listen.” That was when the agent fired. There was a pop as the bullet entered the ex-diplomat’s chest, exited through his back, and struck the Egg Orno. Both collapsed without a sound and lay motionless in a steadily expanding pool of blood.

  “Nice work, boss,” Nondo said admiringly. “The idiot never saw it coming. . . . Not to mention the fact that you took care of both targets with one bullet!”

  Bamik looked down at the bodies and nodded. “We’re on a budget,” the assassin said coldly. “And bullets cost money.”

  Nondo thought that was funny, and was still clacking his left pincer in approval, as Bamik took a series of photos plus two tissue samples, all of which would be sent to Hive to prove that the hit had been completed. Then, having accomplished their mission, the agents left. But, unbeknownst to the assassins, one of their victims was still alive.

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  There was a solid thump as the shuttle’s skids touched the tarmac, followed by a steadily diminishing scream as the engines spooled down, and the troopers at the front of the cargo compartment rose and went to work. Because the POWs had been divided into multiple work groups Tragg was no longer able to oversee all of the prisoners personally. So to enhance security the slaves had been chained to their seats and couldn’t leave the spacecraft until released. A good five minutes passed before Vanderveen and her companions were freed, ordered to stand, and herded out into the bright sunshine.

  The sky, the humid air, and the feel of solid ground under the diplomat’s feet all came as something of a shock after weeks in orbit and made her head swim. There were gasps of astonishment as the POWs paused to look up at the long slivery thread that hung suspended above them. The origins of the space elevator were too high to be seen, and the cable end wasn’t low enough to touch the ground as yet, but the results of their efforts were plain to see.

  Like those around her, Vanderveen couldn’t help but feel a moment of pride as she looked up into the achingly blue sky, saw the crosshatched contrails created by the hardworking tugs, and knew that more sections of cable were being hung even as she watched. And soon, as more and more of the elevator became subject to Jericho’s gravity, both the POWs and the tugs would move down to the surface. It was a moment Vanderveen and the other members of the LG were looking forward to because Nankool was still in orbit, and it was difficult to protect him there.

  The POWs might have gawked a bit longer had they been allowed to, but the Ramanthian everyone referred to as “gimpy” behind his back was in a hurry to get rid of his charges and eat dinner. “You move!” the guard insisted, as he jabbed a marine with his rifle. “Or I shoot you good!”

  So with the Ramanthian limping ahead, and
more guards following along behind, the slaves made their way across the hot tarmac. Vanderveen noticed that a lot of things had changed during her absence. More shuttles were parked along the edge of the field. And in spite of the fact that the furballs claimed to be neutral, some of the ships belonged to the Thrakies.

  And given the number of spacecraft on the ground, it wasn’t surprising to see ragged looking POWs loading cargo modules onto a train of driverless flatbed carriers that whined loudly as they followed a lead unit off the apron and into the jungle.

  Farther out, beyond the airfield’s perimeter, Vanderveen could see that the newly excavated forerunner ruins were being prepped to receive the cable end. Which, if the scuttlebutt was correct, was what she and her companions were slated to work on next.

  Tower-mounted automatic weapons tracked the prisoners as the gate swung open to admit them, and the line of emaciated scarecrows who sat with their backs resting on the wall of the so-called dispensary sent up a reedy cheer as their newly returned comrades entered the camp. But Vanderveen was saddened to see that very few of the patients were able to stand, much less come forward to greet their friends, as they might have four or five weeks earlier. And they were the healthier specimens, the ones judged fit to go outside, while those who were dying lay within.

  But other than the handful of people sitting outside the dispensary, the rest of the camp was practically deserted. Partly because the able-bodied personnel were outside the fence on work details, but also because hundreds of prisoners were still working in space, where they would remain until phase two began.

  So Vanderveen had every reason to expect that she and her comrades would immediately be put to work. And maybe they would have if Tragg had been present. But in the absence of orders from the Ramanthians, most of the POWs withdrew to the huts, where they took much-needed naps. And the diplomat was no exception. Within moments of going facedown on a sour-smelling pallet, Vanderveen was unconscious, and remained that way, until a few hours later when the noise generated by the returning work crews woke her.