When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  However, rather than sit and worry at the problem, there was something more pressing the female had to take care of. And that was her mate’s funeral, a sad affair scheduled for the following morning. Where, if the Queen’s assassins wanted to finish her, they would have the perfect opportunity.

  But when the next day dawned clear and bright, and two of Alway’s Thraki friends joined the Egg Orno in front of the funeral pyre she had commissioned, she was the only Ramanthian present. So as the flames rose to enfold the carefully wrapped body, there was no one other than her to extol the dead diplomat’s virtues or list his many accomplishments. A sudden wind took hold of the smoke along with her words and carried them east. A good omen according to Ramanthian traditions—but of no comfort to the bereaved widow.

  Once the ceremony was over, and the fire had burned itself out, the Egg Orno shuffled down the gentle slope toward the car she had hired. A Thraki was present to see her off. He had light brown fur, beady eyes, and prominent ears. “The ambassador didn’t receive much mail,” the official explained, as he offered her an envelope. “But what there was came through me. That’s an invitation to a reception at the Drac embassy. I know because I received one, too. Rumor has it that Triad Hiween Doma-Sa will attend.”

  The Egg Orno felt something clutch at her stomach. “The Hudathan?”

  “Why, yes,” the Thraki replied mildly. “Do you know him?”

  “We never met,” the Ramanthian replied bleakly. “But I know of him. . . . He fought a duel with my other mate and killed him.”

  The official looked crestfallen. “I’m terribly sorry,” he mumbled contritely. “I was unaware of the connection, and I—”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” the Egg Orno interrupted. “I would like to meet Triad Hiween Doma-Sa. Can I attend in Alway’s place?”

  The Thraki swallowed uncomfortably. “Er, yes, I guess so. . . .”

  “Good,” the Ramanthian replied. “I’ll see you there.”

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Thousands of eyes peered up into the azure blue sky as the specially equipped air car towed the free end of the space elevator south, toward the point where it would be captured by the ground crew and reeled into the forerunner ruins. Then, if all went well, the superstrong cable would be secured to the huge shackle-style fitting that had been installed there. And if things didn’t go well, then there would be hell to pay since both Commandant Mutuu and the War Mutuu had turned out to witness the historic moment from the comfort of a shaded pavilion and were unlikely to be very forgiving.

  That added to the pressure Tragg felt as he and his slaves waited for the tubby air car to tow the 23,560-mile-long cable into position. From where the renegade stood, the whole thing looked like some sort of magic trick because of the way the space elevator hung seemingly unsupported under the vast canopy of blue sky.

  But it was supported by the dreadnaught Imperator, which orbited high above. So the only problem was a variable wind, which presently sought to push the cable to the east, even as the air car fought to pull the shiny thread south.

  And it should have worked, would have worked, except for one thing: The air car was not designed to function as a tug. So as the wind blew, and the operator began to use more power, the engine started to overheat, something the pilot became aware of as an audible alarm went off and a wisp of black smoke issued from the vehicle. Given all of the countervailing stresses involved, the Ramanthian knew that he had a minute, maybe less, in which to complete his mission.

  “Drop the dragline!” the operator ordered, and felt a sense of relief as the troopers directly behind him wrestled a huge coil of rope up and over the side. The car bobbed in response, but because it was connected to the space elevator, couldn’t go far.

  Tragg shaded his eyes as he looked upwards. A steady stream of smoke was pouring out of the air car by then, and the overseer felt a sudden stab of fear as the dragline fell toward the ground. Because the POWs were supposed to grab on to the line, and gain control of it before the space tether was released, but none of them were close enough to do so.

  Meanwhile, as the engine began to cut in and out, the wind disappeared. That caused the air car to veer toward the west and the air strip. The pilot tried to compensate, but couldn’t overcome the tug’s inertia and gave the only order he could. “Release the cable!”

  One of the crew members had been waiting for that very order and jerked a lever. The effect was to let the long, thin cable fall free of the air car. Because the dragline was connected to the free-swinging space elevator, it flew across the surface of the airstrip like a three-hundred-foot-long whip.

  Tragg screamed, “Catch it!” But the words came too late, as the dragline cut two Ramanthian troopers in half and went straight for the pavilion where Mutuu and his mate were up on their feet. The regally attired commandant hurled an invective at the pilot as the War Mutuu threw him down. And just in time, too, as the whiplike rope severed the pavilion’s roof supports and brought the entire structure crashing down around them.

  Thanks to the fact that most of the dragline’s kinetic energy had been expended, it was transformed from a whip into an elusive snake that slithered back and forth across the tarmac as if determined to escape into the jungle. The POWs, led by an infuriated Tragg, were in hot pursuit by then. But most of the prisoners were in such poor condition that they couldn’t run fast enough to catch up. Christine Vanderveen was one of the few exceptions. Not because the FSO was inherently stronger than the rest—but because of the extra food Tragg had forced her to eat.

  But none of that was on Vanderveen’s mind as she led the chase across the airstrip in an effort to capture the rope as quickly as possible and prevent reprisals. However, some of the other prisoners saw the situation differently, like the sailor who intentionally tripped the diplomat in hopes that the runaway space elevator would destroy itself.

  Nankool and the rest of the LG knew better, however, because in spite of the fact that the drag-rope was elusive, it was only a matter of time before the Ramanthians brought it under control with or without help from the prisoners. So as a bruised Vanderveen picked herself up, Commander Schell yelled at the POWs to “secure that goddamned line!”

  And, when the wind in the upper atmosphere shifted slightly, they were finally able to do so as a couple of POWs pounced on it. Then, as more bodies piled on, the rope gradually came under control.

  But the task wouldn’t be over until the errant cable was safely shackled deep inside the forerunner ruins. Vanderveen was among those who began to pull the dragline across the tarmac toward a similar length of rope that led down into the ruins where it was attached to a winch. So once the two lengths of rope were joined, it was possible for the POWs to let go, while Tragg issued orders via a handheld radio.

  Vanderveen saw the dragline jerk as the winch came on, and Tragg gave the POWs new orders. “It will take some time to remove all the slack,” the overseer informed them. “That’s when the cable eye will come down—and the winch crew will need your help to secure it. So haul your asses over there and get to work. And that includes you, sweet cheeks.”

  The last was directed at Vanderveen, and when combined with a conspiratorial wink, was sufficient to reinforce the notion that the two of them had a special relationship. The tactic had proven to be wickedly effective at driving a wedge between the diplomat and her peers in spite of efforts by people like Calisco to counter Tragg’s manipulations.

  The result was a series of supposedly accidental bumps, guttural insults, and thinly veiled threats as the group of six raggedy POWs jogged toward the ruins. There was nothing Vanderveen could do but ignore the comments and keep her distance from the other prisoners as they entered the passageway that led back into what had originally been a steep pyramid. The top had been removed so that the space elevator could be anchored deep within—a laborious process that required weeks of hard labor and cost more than a dozen lives.

  The cable
eye was already in sight by the time Vanderveen and her companions entered the anchor chamber. There was a loud whining noise as the last fifty feet of dragline wound itself onto the drum, accompanied by a nearly deafening clatter, as a dozen metal pawls passed over the huge ratchet wheel positioned to secure the space cable once the correct amount of tension was applied. A decision that would be made by the Ramanthian engineer assigned to supervise the process. And, lest the prisoners attempt to interfere, five heavily armed troopers were present as well.

  “You!” the Ramanthian said, as he pointed at Vanderveen and her companions. “Lift the pin and prepare to push it home.”

  The “pin” was about six feet long and a half foot in diameter. And, thanks to the fact that the cylinder was made out of solid metal, it was heavy. So four prisoners were required to hoist the pin up off the floor and position one end next to the enormous shackle.

  “Here it comes!” someone shouted, as the winch pulled the cable eye down through the hole above. That was the signal for a second team of POWs to rush forward and grab the fitting. But there was still plenty of slack in the space cable, so when a strong gust of wind hit the line two thousand feet above them, the eye jerked upwards and took two marines with it.

  There was a horrible scream, followed by a bloody rain, as one of the men was crushed against the edge of the overhead opening. “Hold!” the Ramanthian ordered sternly, as the winch pulled the cable eye down into the anchor chamber for the second time. Vanderveen held her breath as the loop entered the open shackle and waited for the Ramanthian to say, “Now!” The diplomat helped her fellow POWs lift the heavy pin and push it through the holes. The metal cylinder slid smoothly through the holes on both sides of the shackle, thereby locking the space tether in place. Metal rattled as the cable tested the strength of its mooring, the POWs fell back, and the most important part of the space elevator was complete.

  What the Ramanthian engineer didn’t know was that the structure holding the shackle in place had been systematically weakened during the construction process, and while strong enough to do the job under normal circumstances, would come apart if subjected to excessive stress. Or that’s what the POWs hoped would happen. But there was a lot of guesswork involved, so no one could be sure.

  It was late afternoon by that time, so the prisoners were marched along the edge of the airstrip past the Ramanthian who had been in charge of the overheated air car. He was dead by then, having been hanged from a light standard as an example to the rest of the troops. One of Tragg’s robotic monitors was waiting for Vanderveen as she entered the camp. The machine spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Your dinner will be served in ten minutes, Lieutenant Trevane. . . . Master Tragg is waiting.”

  That was sufficient to earn the diplomat another barrage of verbal abuse from the rest of the prisoners. But to refuse would have been to sentence one of them to death. That left Vanderveen with no choice but to trudge across the compound to the gazebo, where the renegade sat waiting. “You’re covered with blood,” Tragg observed, as the young woman took her seat.

  “Yes,” Vanderveen said matter-of-factly, as she examined the brown blotches on her upper chest and her arms. “And so are you.”

  Tragg didn’t like that, and his right hand strayed to a pistol. Vanderveen smiled thinly. “Go ahead,” she suggested. “Pull that gun and shoot me.”

  The blond had said similar things before, and Tragg knew she meant it. The problem was that the naval officer had been pushed so far, and for so long, that she no longer feared death. In fact, judging from the look in Trevane’s eyes, the young woman wanted to die. She still cared about those around her, however, and that provided the mercenary with the leverage he required. “Eat your food,” the overseer said coldly. “Or would you like to see someone else die?”

  So Vanderveen ate her food. And it tasted good, and her body wanted it, and that made her feel guilty. Tears had begun to flow, and were carving tracks through the grime on her cheeks, when a strange chittering sound was heard. The noise wasn’t that noticeable at first, but soon grew louder, as the foliage beyond the electrified fence began to rustle.

  Tragg was on his feet by then and reaching for his rifle, as the first nymphs emerged from the jungle. They were fairly large by that time, about the size of the average ten-year-old boy, and very hungry. Their cognitive functions had increased, too—as evidenced by the way some of them probed the fence with long sticks. That produced a shower of sparks, which sent most of the juveniles scurrying back into the jungle. But they returned a couple of minutes later—and more appeared with each passing second.

  The chittering sound was much louder by then, loud enough to bring both Mutuus out of the headquarters building, as the acrid scent of nymph urine filled the air. The Ramanthians up in the towers aimed their machine guns down at the juveniles but were clearly reluctant to fire. Vanderveen had left the gazebo by then and noticed something that should have been obvious before. The top of the electrified fence angled outwards, meaning the Ramanthians were more concerned about external attacks than prisoner escapes! Which meant they knew the nymphs could be hostile.

  No sooner had the thought occurred to the POW than a spear fell from the quickly darkening sky, struck a sergeant in the upper thorax, and shattered his chitin. The soldier fell without making a sound, and the chittering increased. That was enough for Commandant Mutuu, who screamed, “Fire!”

  But even as the machine guns began to chug, and the rattle of automatic rifle fire was added to mix, a loud cracking sound was heard. The tree that the nymphs had chosen to fall was well back in the jungle. But it soon became evident that the very top of the forest giant was within range of the fence as the mass of foliage descended on the camp. There was a crash, accompanied by an explosion of sparks, as the tree trunk flattened a section of fence. Within a matter of seconds the nymphs had swarmed up onto the newly created bridge and were following it in toward the center of the compound. Grenades went off, and body parts were hurled high into the air, as the guns continued to cut the invaders down. But there were plenty more— and all of them were hungry for protein.

  The prisoners had evacuated their barracks by then and were beginning to congregate at the center of the camp, when a flight of fifty well-thrown spears rained down on them. A sailor screamed as one of the incoming missiles drove her to the ground. Vanderveen went to the rating’s aid but found there was nothing she or anyone else could do.

  Within a matter of seconds more trees were falling, at least half of which missed the mark, but the result was to divide the Ramanthian machine-gun fire, which allowed dozens of nymphs to successfully enter the compound. Tragg and his Sheen robots were there to meet the chittering invaders. There was no way to know if the overseer was trying to defend himself or his Ramanthian employers, not that it made any difference.

  But the nymphs could fly. And it wasn’t long before dozens of airborne attackers landed on the towers, which forced the Ramanthians on the ground to fire up at them or risk having their machines guns turned on themselves.

  Though not a military man, Nankool believed he knew what would happen next as he appeared at Vanderveen’s side. The president’s heavily bearded face was gaunt, and his voice was urgent. “Mutuu is going to call in an airstrike on the camp! Tell everyone to take cover! Do it now!”

  So Vanderveen, along with other members of the LG, did the best they could to urge those prisoners still out in the open to roll under buildings, take shelter in latrines, or hide in any other place that might provide protection from both the flying nymphs and the planes that were most likely on the way.

  As the POWs scattered, each searching for his or her personal hole, the War Mutuu had taken to the field. Backed by two troopers armed with rifles, the warrior was standing in front of the main building, seemingly oblivious to the spears that fell around him. Light glinted off steel as his razor-sharp blade rose and fell. There was an audible ka-ching each time a head rolled, interspersed by rifle shots
, as the soldiers kept flying nymphs at a distance.

  But there was no further opportunity to observe the War Mutuu or anything else as a brace of ground-based aerospace fighters roared overhead and began their bloody work. Not with bombs, which would have destroyed everything , but with rockets and guns. Not just around the perimeter of Camp Enterprise alone, but along the edges of the airfield, where dozens of nymphs threatened to overrun the space elevator’s anchor point.

  Vanderveen went facedown in the dirt as one of the fighters made a gun run parallel to the south fence, and felt someone grab hold of her ankles. It wasn’t until after the diplomat had been pulled in under the dubious protection of the admin building that she turned to discover that her rescuer was none other than Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco. He grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! You gotta give the bugs credit. . . . They certainly know how to keep the kids in line.” The comment was punctuated by a series of explosions as one of the low-flying planes made a rocket run to the north, and the ground trembled in response.

  The fight continued for another ten minutes, but came to its inevitable conclusion soon after that, as the surviving nymphs were driven back into the surrounding jungle. The fighters made one last pass, and upon getting the all clear, turned back toward the north. A heavy silence hung over the camp as the smoke started to clear. Then, as the POWs began to emerge from their various hiding places, the Ramanthians went out to gather their dead. And not just the adult soldiers but the juveniles as well. A huge task, given that the casualties lay in drifts, but one they carried out themselves, in spite of the fact that slave labor was available. Adding to the horror of the situation was the fact that while some of the nymphs were wounded, none showed any inclination to surrender, and snapped at anyone who attempted to aid them. Shots rang out as they were put down.

  The Ramanthians didn’t have tear ducts, so they couldn’t cry, but there was no mistaking the feeling of intense sorrow that hung over the camp as the sun dipped below the western horizon, and huge funeral pyres began to take shape. Because nameless though the attackers were, each nymph was born of the Queen, and a citizen of the empire. So when morning came the fires would be lit, the half-grown bodies would be purified, and the smoke would carry more than a thousand spirits away.