When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  Jakov felt a sudden surge of hope. And why not? Nankool was almost certainly dead. And since each and every one of the senators was subject to political pressure of one sort or another, all he needed to do was squeeze, bully, or bribe them. So, if Booly and his band of starry-eyed dreamers were stupid enough to grant him the gift of time, then who was he to refuse it? And later, once the presidency was his, each and every one of the bastards would be taken out and shot. “Yes,” Vice President Jakov said thoughtfully. “The situation is very clear indeed.”

  17

  There are times when men have to die.

  —United States Secretary of War Henry Stimson Standard year 1941

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  The sun rose slowly, as if reluctant to give birth to another day, and was nearly invisible above a layer of gauzy clouds. Bit by bit the heat penetrated the planet’s surface and began to tease moisture up out of the ground. The resulting mist shivered whenever a breeze came along to tug at it— but seemed reluctant to part company with the row of crosses that appeared to float over it. Twelve of the POWs had been crucified. Not because of anything they had done, but because of something they hadn’t done, which was to reveal Nankool’s presence to the Ramanthians.

  That was Maximillian Tragg’s claim anyway. But as Vanderveen stood on one of the two crosspieces that were fastened to the centermost pole, she knew it was more than that. Especially in her case. Because to the renegade’s psychotic way of thinking, she had betrayed his trust. And made him look ridiculous, which was more than the mercenary’s fragile ego could handle.

  There was something else, too. . . . Because once the newly constructed cross was laid out on the ground, and the diplomat had been forced to take her place on it, Tragg began to refer to her as “Marci,” a woman the renegade hated so much he insisted on driving the nails through Vanderveen’s wrists personally. The diplomat didn’t want to scream, and was determined not to, but the pain proved to be too much. So Vanderveen emptied her lungs as the spikes went in and saw how much pleasure that gave Tragg just before she fainted.

  When Vanderveen awoke her cross was upright and firmly planted in the ground. The center of what Tragg called his “garden.” Fortunately, most of the diplomat’s weight was supported by the crosspiece under her feet. The innovation was intended to extend both her life and her suffering. Which, without water, would probably last another five or six days. Or more if it rained. Not that it mattered because Vanderveen was in an altered state of consciousness when a shoulder-launched missile hit the watchtower located at the southeast corner of the compound. There was an explosion, followed by a loud boom, as hundreds of pieces of debris fell slowly toward the ground. That was followed by more explosions as the T-2s fired missiles at carefully selected targets, and large gaps began to appear in the fence.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Corley Calisco said, as the bombardment began. “The cavalry has arrived.”

  Having fired their missiles, the ten-foot-tall war forms left the protection of the jungle, crossed the free-fire zone, and poured through newly created gaps in the security fence. There they were met by stiff resistance from the Ramanthian defenders, who, having been reinforced in the wake of the nymph attack, responded with a hail of gunfire from assault weapons, crew-served machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenades.

  Jas Hargo, the cyborg responsible for Major Hal DeCosta’s murder, placed one of his big podlike feet on a subsurface mine. There was a loud crump as the shaped charge went off and sent a jet of white-hot plasma upwards. The resulting explosion killed the bio bod who was strapped to the cyborg’s back and blew the T-2’s head off. It fell, rolled for a few feet, and came to rest looking upwards. That was when Hargo saw Snyder coming his way, and shouted “No!” as a big metal pod descended on his face.

  Like his mount, Santana was completely oblivious to the manner of Hargo’s death as the cyborg’s brain box was crushed under him. Because just about all of the officer’s attention was focused on the camp and the situation around him. Resistance was stiff, but that was to be expected, and the first objective had been achieved. The security fence had been breached—and Team Zebra had entered the compound! But where was Nankool? Batkin was in charge of finding the chief executive but had yet to report in.

  Snyder’s body began to jerk rhythmically as she opened fire with her .50-caliber machine gun. The big slugs tore into a file of recently arrived Ramanthian troopers and ripped them apart. That was when the company commander spotted the row of crosses and knew the POWs must have been crucified after his departure the day before. One more group of people to remember once the extraction phase of the operation began.

  It was a subject Santana continued to worry about because the pickup ships should have been in contact with him by then. Had the task force been intercepted? And, if so, what if anything could he do about it? But those thoughts were interrupted as Snyder spoke over the intercom. “Look at the cross in the middle, sir. Is that Miss Vanderveen?”

  “No,” Santana responded automatically. “It can’t be because . . .” But then, as the officer turned his head, he caught sight of some blond hair and made a grab for his binos. Snyder knew Vanderveen, having met the diplomat on LaNor, and could zoom in on any object she chose to.

  So if the cyborg said that the person on the cross was Christine, then it might be true. And when the officer brought the binos up he knew it was! More importantly, judging from a slight movement of her head, Vanderveen was alive!

  That realization drove everything else out of Santana’s mind. Fearful that Vanderveen might be killed by a stray bullet, Santana hurried to pull the plug on the intercom and hit the harness release. Snyder started to object as the officer hit the ground, but spotted a Ramanthian with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, and had to respond.

  Gomez was about a hundred feet away and watched in horror as Santana began to run. “Alpha Two-Six to Alpha Six,” the noncom said desperately, but received no reply as bullets whispered around the legionnaire. Meanwhile the gazebo-like structure at the center of the compound exploded into a thousand fiery pieces, and a series of explosions marched across the camp. The assault, which had been so focused to start with, was beginning to falter.

  Gomez was about to urge her cyborg forward, in hopes of reestablishing contact with Santana, when an RPG hit her T-2’s chest. The noncom felt the resulting explosion, knew both of them were falling, and hit the harness release. Gomez felt herself fall free, but took an unintended blow from one of Vantha’s outflung arms, and the lights went out.

  The attack on Camp Enterprise made the War Mutuu angry rather than frightened, which was why the Ramanthian took his sword and exited the administration building through the front door. He should have been killed immediately, as were two of his bodyguards, but it was as if nothing could touch the haughty warrior.

  Those POWs still strong enough to do so had joined the battle by then, some with weapons acquired from dead Ramanthians and others with little more than improvised spears. Two of them ran straight at the War Mutuu, hoping to impale the Ramanthian on their sharpened sticks, but the warrior twisted away. Steel flashed, and blood sprayed the ground as the first human went down.

  The second screamed something the War Mutuu couldn’t understand, took a cut at the Ramanthian’s retrograde legs, and made contact. The warrior stumbled and regained his balance, just as an SLM made violent contact with a Ramanthian air car. There was a primary explosion, quickly followed by a secondary, as the vehicle crashed into the dispensary. Most of the patients were killed.

  But there was no time to consider such developments as the War Mutuu deployed his wings, jumped into the air, and cut the second POW down. The human produced an ear-piercing scream as the blade sank into his shoulder, but the sound was abruptly cut off, as the warrior’s sole surviving bodyguard shot the wounded prisoner.

  That was when the stern-faced aristocrat saw that one of the invading animals had abandoned the protec
tion of his cyborg and was in the process of running toward the crosses. The War Mutuu had no particular interest in the POWs Tragg had chosen to crucify but wasn’t about to allow an attacker to give them aid. A bullet hummed past the Ramanthian’s head, and a chunk of shrapnel missed him by inches as the warrior turned toward the crosses and began to advance. Finally, after years of patient waiting, his moment of glory had come.

  Because of his status as a civilian, Watkins was the last member of Team Zebra to enter the compound, albeit on a lumbering RAV rather than a T-2, since all of the war forms were required for combat. That made for a slower ride but provided the media specialist with a relatively steady platform from which to record everything he saw and heard. But as the robot paused to fire a burst from its nose gun, Watkins was only marginally aware of the battle he’d been sent to cover. Because the only thing the civilian really cared about was finding Maximillian Tragg and killing him. The problem was how? Reinforcements had arrived by then, and a T-2 exploded as it took a direct hit from an RPG.

  Meanwhile, another guard tower fell and crushed a file of bugs under its weight, as the battle continued to ebb and flow. All this seemed to suggest that it would be impossible to find Tragg, until Watkins noticed that a flight of three silvery remotes were headed toward the airfield and remembered the pictures of Tragg walking through the jungle accompanied by a coterie of robots, including the type now headed north. The bastard was trying to escape!

  Excited now, Watkins slid down off the RAV and began to run. And, thanks to the capabilities of his electromechanical body, the cyborg was fast. The media specialist had a rocket launcher slung across his back along with a reload. The weapons bounced painfully as he ran. A Ramanthian machine gunner had noticed the interloper by then and turned his weapon in that direction. Geysers of dirt flew up all around Watkins as he zigzagged across what had been the camp’s assembly area and made for the fence beyond. “Don’t worry, Marci,” the cyborg said. “I’ll get the bastard this time. . . . And he’s going to pay!”

  Vanderveen could see giants striding through the lazy ground mist, hear the sporadic rattle of automatic fire, and smell the acrid smoke. And there, standing right in front of her, was Antonio Santana! That was impossible, of course, so it must be a dream. A wonderful dream in which he had come to rescue her. The legionnaire’s visor was up, and his face was filled with concern. “Christine? Can you hear me? Don’t worry. . . . We’ll have you down in a minute.”

  It seemed so real that Vanderveen tried to respond. But try as she might nothing came out of her mouth until she saw the War Mutuu appear out of the billowing smoke.

  That was when the words finally took form. “Tony! Behind you!”

  Santana whirled to find that a Ramanthian was ready to strike. And because the warrior’s sword was already up in the air, poised to split the officer in two, there was no time in which to do anything other than push the assault weapon up with both hands. But the War Mutuu’s monomolecular blade sliced through the CA-10’s steel receiver as if it were warm butter and would have gone on to bury itself in the legionnaire’s skull had the soldier been even a fraction of a second slower to react.

  The Ramanthian jerked his weapon loose, raised it over his head, and brought it back down again. Fortunately, Santana was in the process of throwing himself backwards by then. He landed on his back as the superthin blade sliced through empty air.

  That was the War Mutuu’s cue to raise his sword for what should have been an easy kill, and what would have been an easy kill, had it not been for Maria Gomez. Because as a horrified Vanderveen looked on, a much-bloodied legionnaire lurched out of the smoke and threw herself forward.

  Santana felt Gomez land on top of him, and as he looked up into a pair of pain-filled eyes, the officer saw something he would never forget. A look of longing the likes of which he’d never seen before. Then it was gone as the War Mutuu’s blade sliced through the noncom’s body armor and into her spine.

  The Ramanthian withdrew his sword, and was about to take another cut, when he heard the telltale whine of servos. Though delayed, Snyder arrived in time to see Gomez die, and that made the T-2 angry. So when the War Mutuu turned to confront the cyborg she chose to fire her flamethrower rather than the .50-caliber machine gun. There was a whoosh, as the liquid fuel hit the Ramanthian, followed by a solid whump as the warrior was enveloped by a cocoon of orange-yellow flames. That was followed by a series of bloodcurdling screams as the aristocrat began a horrible dance of death.

  The end came when Santana managed to roll out from under Gomez, scrambled to his feet, and drew his pistol. It took three shots to put the War Mutuu down. But even as the Ramanthian’s chitin crackled, and his internal organs began to sizzle, the sword clutched in his charred pincer continued to shine.

  Meanwhile, Santana forced himself to concentrate on his command. It wasn’t easy, not with Vanderveen still standing on the cross above him, but the legionnaire knew the entire team was counting on him to provide direction. Fortunately, the data on his HUD, plus what the officer could see with his own eyes, suggested that Team Zebra was well on its way to controlling the camp. But they hadn’t found Nankool yet, more Ramanthian reinforcements were probably on the way, and there was no sign of the goddamned navy. “This is Alpha Six,” the company commander said. “We’re going to need some tools and a couple of medics to get the people down off those crosses. And has anyone seen Batkin? We need to grab the target and get the hell out of here.”

  Vanderveen’s throat was bone dry—and her voice was hoarse. “Look in the administration building. The commandant has him.”

  Santana was going to thank her when what sounded like a runaway train rumbled overhead. That was followed by an earsplitting crack as a large crater materialized at the center of the compound. A windmilling T-2 fell out of the air, landed with a sickening crunch, and was half-buried by falling dirt. Even though they ran the risk of hitting their own troops, the Ramanthians had decided to fire energy cannons from orbit rather than allow the compound to be overrun. “Damn it,” Santana said, as what sounded like another freight train rattled through the atmosphere. “Where are those ships?” There was no reply other than a loud explosion, the continued clatter of a machine gun, and the sound of another scream.

  The administration building shook as something struck the ground outside. A blizzard of dust particles came loose from the rafters to drift down through a momentary shaft of sunlight even as a burst of machine-gun bullets passed within a foot of Marcott Nankool and ripped holes in the wall beyond.

  But if those things bothered Commandant Mutuu, the impeccably dressed Ramanthian showed no sign of it as he poured hot water through a strainer filled with gold-colored leaves. “There,” the aristocrat said contentedly, as he reached over to remove a cup of amber liquid from under the filter. “Please be so good as to tell me what you think. Is the Oburo Gold superior to the Zecco Red? Or is it the other way around?”

  The bizarre tête-à-tête between Nankool and the effete commandant had been triggered by the human’s obvious knowledge of Ramanthian etiquette. A capacity which, to Mutuu’s mind at least, signaled the presence of someone who, if not an equal, had a profound understanding of Ramanthian culture. And that, combined with the prisoner’s rank, made the human worth interacting with.

  Having accepted the tumbler of hot liquid, Nankool sucked some of the tea into his mouth and swirled it around. It was a noisy process, and intentionally so, because that signaled enjoyment. The brew tasted like battery acid, or what Nankool imagined battery acid might taste like, and it was all he could do to get the bitter stuff down. And no sooner had the chief executive swallowed than an errant rocket-propelled grenade smashed through a window and lodged itself in the opposite wall. The human gritted his teeth and waited for the weapon to explode. It didn’t.

  “Come now, don’t be reticent,” the Ramanthian insisted. “What do you think?”

  “The Zecco Red was superior,” Nankool said decisively
. “But just barely.”

  “Exactly!” Mutuu agreed eagerly. “The difference between the two is slight, almost indistinguishable to all but the most discerning of palates, yet sufficient to set one above the other. It’s so pleasant to have a visitor who appreciates the finer things in life.”

  “Thank you, Excellency,” Nankool replied humbly. “You’re too kind. Now, having refreshed ourselves, I wonder if we should seek cover? The battle seems to be heating up.”

  “There’s no need to worry about that,” the commandant said dismissively. “The War Mutuu will soon put things right.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” Oliver Batkin said, as he coasted into the throne room. “Not unless your mate has the capacity to return from the dead.”

  It had taken the spy a while to locate Nankool, cut a hole large enough to pass through, and enter the building. Now, as the cyborg hovered at the center of the room, the Ramanthian produced a small weapon. An energy gun from the look of it—which he brought to bear on President Nankool. Or tried to bring to bear as Batkin fired a single .50-caliber round. The impact threw the aristocrat backwards and brought a delicately painted panel crashing to the floor along with him.

  “Nice shot,” Nankool said appreciatively, as he came to his feet. “And you are?”

  “Resident Agent Oliver Batkin,” the cyborg replied formally. “Presently attached to the team sent to bring you out.”