When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  “This is Alpha Six. . . . Hold your position,” Santana instructed. “We’re coming up behind you. How ’bout it Alpha Three-Three? Have you got video for me? Over.”

  Santana eyed his HUD, saw a box appear, and watched video roll inside of it. The first thing he saw was foliage, an opening, and the clearing beyond. The badly ravaged carcass was clear to see. But the predators, or scavengers as the case might be, were little more than a blur as they took off in a half dozen directions.

  Santana chose one of the images by focusing on it and blinking twice. The fugitive froze, grew larger, and began to rotate as the ITC system took the visual data and made an educated guess as to what the rest of the creature would look like. And the result looked very familiar indeed. Because like their human counterparts juvenile Ramanthians were known to follow what the xenobiologists called, “. . . a simple development pattern.” Meaning that nymphs looked like adults, except that they were smaller, and, judging from the video, a helluva lot faster.

  All of which served to confirm Santana’s hypothesis that the tricentennials were not only hatching out, but well into the equivalent of early adolescence, a stage of development the Confederacy’s scientists knew very little about. Especially in the wild since what little information they had pertained to nymphs hatched in civilized settings.

  Snyder paused next to Nacky, which allowed Santana to nod at Darby before directing his T-2 out into the clearing. The carcass was surrounded by a cloud of voracious insects, and big gaping wounds made it difficult to tell what the creature looked like before the nymphs tore into it, other than to say that it had a relatively small head, a highly specialized claw-tipped tentacle that extended from what would otherwise have been described as its nose, and four short legs. Judging from appearances, the Ramanthians had swarmed the beast, opened its belly with their parrotlike nose hooks, and ripped its guts out. Not a pleasant way to die, but interesting, because it implied some sort of group cohesion.

  “Alpha Six to all units,” Santana said as he looked down at what remained of the jungle animal. “Be advised that a large number of Ramanthian nymphs have hatched out and are on the loose. They could be dangerous, especially if encountered in large numbers, so keep your eyes peeled. Over and out.”

  What followed came so quickly it was as if DeCosta had been waiting to punch the “transmit” button. And rather than utilize the command push, so his comments would be heard by Santana alone, he chose to broadcast them to the entire company. “I will be the judge of what does and does not constitute a threat to this team,” DeCosta grated. “Which means your role is to submit what you consider to be relevant data to me. At which time I will analyze it and notify the team if that’s appropriate. Understood? Over.”

  Ibo-Da and the rest of his squad didn’t approve of the rebuke and directed disbelieving looks at each other, but there was nothing they could do but glower and look uncomfortable as Santana gave the only response he could. “Yes, sir. Over.”

  “Good,” DeCosta concluded stiffly. “Zebra Six, out.”

  Had the bio bods been on foot, the next three hours of travel would have been exhausting, as Santana and half his platoon fought their way through vegetation so thick that whichever T-2 was in the lead had to use his or her energy cannon to clear a path. And on one occasion, the cyborgs were forced to ford a river so deep that the bio bods had to stand up straight in order to keep their heads above water.

  So thanks to the cyborgs, the bio bods were able to not only conserve their energy, but enjoy moments like the one when the legionnaires marched through a cathedral-like open space where shafts of dusty sunlight fed pools of gold, and jewel-like insects flitted through the air. But such moments were all too rare as the temperature increased, the bio bods’ hot, sweaty uniforms began to chafe, and time seemed to slow.

  Finally, as darkness began to fall, the second squad found itself within five miles of Sergeant Gomez. Santana was tempted to proceed, confident that the T-2s could find their way through the dead of night if necessary, but DeCosta refused, insisting that each group camp and create its own defensive perimeter. That was stupid to Santana’s way of thinking, since a unified platoon could mount a better defense than two isolated squads, but it was not for him to decide.

  So the platoon leader chose a rise, where attackers if any would be forced to advance uphill, and ordered the cyborgs to clear a 360-degree free-fire zone. Though far from happy about it, the bio bods dug defensive positions before they sat down to eat. Then, once the T-2s were finished constructing a barrier made out of fallen logs and sharpened stakes, it was time to settle in for the night. A scary business for any bio bod not accompanied by four battle-ready war forms. Especially given the strange sounds and continual rustlings that issued from the jungle.

  The hours of darkness were divided into four two-hour watches, and Santana had just completed his shift when DeCosta spoke over the command push. “This is Zebra Six. . . . Do you read me? Over.”

  The major sounded strange, or so it seemed to Santana, although the officer knew he might be mistaken. “This is Alpha Six. . . . I read you. Over.”

  “How are things at your location? Over?”

  Santana frowned. The answer was obvious, or should have been, given the fact that DeCosta could access the ITC. It was as if the other officer was simply nervous and wanted to chat. “No problems so far, sir,” the platoon leader answered. “What’s the situation there?”

  “We lost Frayley,” DeCosta replied harshly. “She went outside the perimeter to take a leak, fired three shots, and was gone by the time her T-2 arrived on the scene. Smith saw more than a dozen heat signatures but withheld fire out of fear of hitting her. Over.”

  Santana wasn’t wearing his helmet at that point, so he hadn’t seen Frayley’s name and status pop up on the ITC, but he remembered the legionnaire well. A fresh-faced young woman with reddish hair and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. One of the few team members with a clean record, who, if rumors were correct, had volunteered in order to be with Sergeant Jan Obama. “Damn,” Santana said sadly. “How is Bravo Two-Six taking the news? Over.”

  “Obama went nuts, if that’s what you mean,” DeCosta answered clinically. “We had to restrain her. Over.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence, as if DeCosta was hoping that Santana would make sense of the incident somehow and thereby make him feel better. But the cavalry officer didn’t have anything to say, other than it was stupid to pee outside the perimeter. A lesson Frayley learned the hard way. Eventually, when it was clear that the conversation was over, DeCosta broke the contact. “Zebra Six, out.”

  It was difficult to sleep after that, but Santana finally managed an hour or so and woke just before dawn, when standing orders required that all units serving in the field stand to arms. It was a tradition that went back hundreds of years and was based on the fact that predawn attacks were and always would be common.

  But no attack was forthcoming, which left the second squad free to brew hot drinks and eat their MSMREs before taking fifteen minutes to erase the more obvious signs of their presence. Then it was up and off, as the legionnaires made their way through a long, narrow gorge before climbing up over a thinly forested ridge and descending into the jungle below. And that was where Sergeant Maria Gomez and the first squad were waiting for them. There were the usual catcalls, insults, and other greetings, but the only person Gomez truly cared about was her platoon leader.

  Santana took note of the fact that the noncom had chosen to spend the night with her back to a cliff and a good field of fire. The pits had been filled in, however, and the barricade had been removed, which meant the first squad was ready to move. The platoon leader nodded approvingly. “Nice job, Sergeant. Any excitement last night?”

  But before Gomez could answer, DeCosta was on the team freq, his voice tight with anger. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . The clock is running! Or have you forgotten? Please bring your platoon forward as quickly
as possible. Over and out.”

  It was the sort of thing that Gomez expected from officers, and her anger was clear to see. She opened her mouth to speak, but Santana frowned and shook his head. Then, having made no response, he ordered Snyder forward.

  Meanwhile, as Santana took to the trail, the platoon seethed. None of the legionnaires approved of the way DeCosta was harassing the XO, and Hargo least of all. The serial murderer was still angry about the manner in which DeCosta had shelved him. “Who the hell does the little shit think he is?” the cyborg wanted to know. “One of these days I’m going to grab the bastard and twist his pointy head off!”

  “That will be enough of that,” Gomez said sternly. “Stow the bullshit, or I’ll put you on point for the next five days.”

  With the shrewdness of enlisted people everywhere, Hargo had taken advantage of the disagreement between Santana and DeCosta to keep the war paint on in spite of the major’s order to get rid of it. Which meant that, as the T-2’s big blocky head turned her way, Gomez found herself looking into a pair of bleeding eyes. Hargo was pissed, the noncom knew that, but couldn’t be allowed to run his mouth. Slowly, so as to emphasize what she was doing, the squad leader pulled the zapper out if its holster and held it up for him to see. “You want to dance, big boy?” she inquired. “If so, then bring it on!”

  There was a pause, followed by a synthesized rumble. “I got no beef with you, Sarge. You know that.”

  Gomez made the zapper disappear. “Yeah, I know that,” she replied casually. “I was checking, that’s all. Come on, you slackers. Let’s get our asses in gear before the major goes crazy on the captain again.”

  The next few hours were largely uneventful as Santana led his platoon north. The column bushwhacked where necessary, but followed game trails whenever possible, to save time. But the legionnaire knew there was something even more important than speed, and that was the need to maintain the element of surprise. Because the moment the Ramanthians became aware of the team, they would bring an overwhelming amount of firepower to bear, and the mission would be over. Worse yet, the bugs might figure out what the legionnaires had been planning to do and identify Nankool.

  So when the fire team at the front of the column announced a clearing ahead, plus some sort of structure, the platoon leader was quick to order both squads off the trail. Once all of them were hidden, Santana directed Snyder to keep an eye on the back door while he followed Private Noaim Shootstraight forward. The brindled Naa was a crack shot, a skilled scout, and had been court-martialed for desertion. Not once but twice. However, in spite of the fact that there weren’t any jungles on Algeron, and the way his sweat-matted fur caused him to pant, the Naa seemed to slide between the leaves and branches as if raised on Jericho. Santana, by contrast, made twice as much noise, and was hard-pressed to keep up.

  Ten minutes later the twosome arrived at the edge of a blackened clearing that had obviously been created with energy weapons or something very similar. And there, sitting at the very center of the open space, was a cylindrical structure. The construct was about twenty feet tall, shaped like a grain silo, and had evenly spaced holes all around its circumference. Ramanthian script had been spray-painted onto whatever the object was along with a six-digit number. None of it made any sense to Santana—but was seemingly obvious to Shootstraight. “It looks like a feeder, sir,” the private whispered. “Like the ones we have for dooths back home.”

  What the Naa said made sense. But the Ramanthians didn’t have any dooths. Then the officer had it. . . . The food was for their tricentennial nymphs! The same ones who were out hunting. He was about to say as much when DeCosta spoke in his ear. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . What are you waiting for? Get a move on. Over.”

  There were no Ramanthians in sight, young or old, which meant that the way was clear. Or that’s how it seemed. But the area around the silo was littered with the remains of dead animals. Bones mostly, since it looked as though scavengers had been at them, but some half-eaten corpses as well. Had foraging nymphs killed them? Or had the slaughter resulted from something else?

  “Answer me, damn it!” DeCosta demanded shrilly. “I know you can hear me!”

  DeCosta was distracting, so Santana killed the input, as he brought his binos up and inched them from left to right. There was nothing to see at first, other than corrugated metal, but then he spotted them. Half-hidden within the shadow cast by the feeder’s conical roof was an array of spotlights, vid cams, and some sort of weapons! Which made sense if the bugs wanted to observe what the nymphs were up to and keep indigenous animals from getting their food. The platoon leader reactivated his radio to discover that DeCosta was in mid-rant. “. . . or I will know the reason why! Over.”

  “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said softly. “We ran into a Ramanthian feeding station—complete with cameras and a computer-controlled weapons system. That means we’ve got to backtrack and go around it. Out.”

  Even DeCosta could understand that, so there was no reply, which the platoon leader chose to interpret as a win. But Hargo wasn’t so easily satisfied. He took each of DeCosta’s diatribes personally—and continued to fume.

  Having backtracked more than a mile and successfully circled around the Ramanthian feeding station, the first platoon continued toward the north and a reunion with the rest of Team Zebra. The much-awaited linkup took place at about 1500 hours, which left them about five hours of daylight.

  DeCosta, who was clearly eager to get going, chose to position himself near the head of the column just behind the team on point. The decision spoke to his personal courage since both he and his T-2 would almost certainly be in the thick of things were the company to be ambushed.

  In the meantime Santana found himself in the drag position, which made tactical sense, but might be by way of a punishment as well. But whatever the reason for the assignment, the platoon leader took his duties seriously, which meant Snyder had to as well, even if that required extra effort. Because rather than simply walk backwards every once in a while, and scan the back trail with her sensors, the officer ordered the T-2 to leave the trail periodically, hunker down, and wait to see if anyone was following. And not just following, but lagging so far back, as to initially fall outside of sensor range. Which seemed unlikely at best—and forced Snyder to jog in order to catch up with column.

  Consistent with Snyder’s expectations the first five attempts produced negative results. But then, just as the legionnaire was beginning to resent the process, something registered on the cyborg’s sensors. And not just one something, but a parade of heat signatures, all coming up the trail. The targets weren’t large enough to qualify as Ramanthian troopers, plus they had a tendency to advance in a series of fits and starts, but the presence of so many unidentified life-forms was unsettling, nevertheless. Especially if the targets were Ramanthian nymphs.

  So Snyder told Santana, who ordered her back onto the trail, and relayed the information to DeCosta. And rather than pooh-pooh the report the way the platoon leader half expected him to, the major even went so far as to offer up a grudging, “Well done.” Followed by a brusque, “Keep an eye on the buggers.” Which Santana did.

  Darkness fell earlier on the forest floor than up above the canopy. So, when the column came across some vine-covered ruins, DeCosta called a halt while there was still enough light to work by. Lieutenant Farnsworth’s platoon was ordered to establish a defensive perimeter around the stone structure. That left the first platoon to set up camp, which required them to clear obstructing vegetation, establish firing positions, and seal off the steep stairwell that led underground.

  Santana monitored the work by walking around. He paused every now and then to offer words of encouragement, but generally let his noncoms make decisions, knowing it was important to build confidence in their leadership.

  Eventually the work was done. And just in time, too, as the sun sank in the west, and six small fires were lit inside the embrace of the ancient walls. They threw shadows o
nto the carefully fitted stones, but none were positioned to silhouette the legionnaires or reveal too much to prying eyes.

  DeCosta was sitting in a corner, reading a holy book by means of the lights built into his helmet, and Farnsworth had the first watch. That meant Santana had the small fire all to himself as he consumed his rations. “So,” a voice said, as servos whined. “We meet again.”

  The officer turned to find that Watkins was standing next to him. Having been ejected from the ship immediately after DeCosta, the civilian and his T-2 landed within half a mile of the major, and had been with the officer ever since. Santana gestured to the space next to him. “Pull up a chair. . . .”

  “I’m sorry about all of DeCosta’s bullshit,” the media specialist said, as he lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs. “You’ve been very patient.”

  Santana was surprised by both the tone of the comment and its source. “Really? No offense, sir. . . . But it was my impression that the two of you were pretty tight.”

  Even though his plastiflesh face was less responsive to emotion than skin-covered muscle would have been— there was no denying the look of disgust on the cyborg’s face. “I can certainly understand how you came to that conclusion,” the civilian allowed. “But no, the truth is that I met DeCosta just two hours prior to boarding, and have come to like the man less with each passing day. His attitude toward cyborgs is nothing less than appalling.”

  Rather than agree with Watkins, which would have been disloyal, the cavalry officer chose a less risky path as he bit into a fruit bar. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you come along?”

  Watkins smiled thinly. “Well, that depends on whom you ask. . . . Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would tell you that I’m here to document the mission. Because if you and your legionnaires succeed, then she wants the credit to accrue to Jakov. And, if you fail, she wants evidence that an attempt was made.”