When All Seems Lost

by William C. Dietz

  19

  Where law ends, tyranny begins.

  —William Pitt, First Earl of Chatham

  Speech in the House of Lords

  Standard year 1770

  ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DREADNAUGHT IMPERATOR

  The Imperator’s spacious control room was located deep within the ship’s hull, where it was safe from missiles, torpedoes, and cannon fire. Everything except the least likely threat of all: a single alien armed with two pistols. But there Maximillian Tragg was, with a blood-splattered officer lying dead at his feet, and a gun clutched in each fist. Ten Ramanthians of various ranks and specialties stood arrayed before him. Some were frightened, but most were angry, and ready to attack the human if given the chance. Also witness to the tableau, but invisible in the glare produced by the overhead lights, was a tiny sphere. It bobbed slightly as air from a nearby ventilation duct flowed around the device.

  “Okay,” Tragg said levelly. “Now that I have your attention, listen up. In case you haven’t heard, a group of POWs murdered Commandant Mutuu, stole two of your shuttles, and landed one of them on this ship. Now, having cut the space elevator loose, they’re going to come here in hopes of taking control. A plan which, if successful, will land you in a Confederacy POW camp. Or,” the renegade continued, “you can take me where I want to go and return home safely. The choice is yours.”

  None of the Ramanthians found either option to be very appealing as the ensuing silence made clear. “Let’s try it again,” Tragg insisted, as he shot a junior officer in the head. “Either you will do what I say, or you will die!”

  “All right,” one of the officers said, as the reverberations from the gunshot died away. “We’ll do as you say.”

  Batkin had been “watching” the scene unfold via the tiny marble-sized remote, which had threaded its way through the ship’s ventilation system and into the control room. “He just murdered another member of the bridge crew,” the cyborg said, as he swiveled his globe-shaped body toward Santana. “And the bugs are beginning to cooperate. That will allow Tragg to take the ship wherever he wants.”

  The two of them, along with a combined force of legionnaires and ex-POWs, had arrived outside the control room, only to find that the access hatch was locked from within. Not by the Ramanthians, as they initially supposed, but by Tragg. Who, having been refused passage aboard a Thraki ship, had taken refuge on the Imperator. “We have to get in there,” Santana said grimly. “Can your remote open the hatch?”

  “Maybe,” the cyborg allowed doubtfully. “I could take a run at the door switch. But the remote is so small, it might not pack enough mass to close the circuit. And Tragg isn’t likely to give me any second chances.”

  “But what if we could distract him?” Santana wanted to know. “So you could take two, or even three tries if that was necessary?”

  “That would be wonderful,” the spy ball agreed. “What have you got in mind?”

  “I will need access to the ship’s PA system,” the officer answered. “So we can talk to Tragg. . . . As for the rest, well, we’ll see. Maybe the sonofabitch believes in ghosts and maybe he doesn’t.”

  Meanwhile, knowing that the POWs had cut the space elevator loose, the Ramanthians threw everything they had at the Imperator. And, because it was going to take at least half an hour to bring her drives back online, the dreadnaught was an easy target for all of the fighters, patrol boats, and destroyers that came after her.

  But at Tragg’s urging the bridge crew had been able to restore the battleship’s overshields—which meant none of the weapons thrown at her were actually hitting the hull. Not yet anyway, although that could change because the systems involved hadn’t been maintained in a long time. And the much-stressed force field could fail at any moment. That possibility was very much on Tragg’s mind as the renegade sat with his back to a corner and felt the hull shake as a torpedo struck the ship. The Ramanthians were forced to grab pincer-holds as one of the lights went out and particles of decades-old dust avalanched down from above. I won’t be able to keep all of them under control, the fugitive thought to himself. Not for two or three weeks in hyperspace. So it would make sense to kill four of five of the bastards the moment we get under way. But which ones? Such were Tragg’s thoughts as a female voice came over the intercom. “Max? Can you hear me? This is Marci.”

  Tragg felt ice water trickle into his veins. Did the voice belong to Marci? Who had returned from the dead? No! It was a trick! “You’re not Marci,” the renegade objected, as his eyes began to dart around the room. “Your name is Mary Trevane.”

  Tragg wasn’t using the intercom system, but Vanderveen could hear him, thanks to an audio relay from Batkin’s remote. “No,” the diplomat replied. “Trevane is dead. You crucified her.”

  The Ramanthian bridge crew looked on in alarm as the human stood and began to turn circles with both weapons at the ready. “You can hear me,” Tragg said suspiciously. “But that’s impossible.”

  “I listen to you all the time,” Vanderveen replied. “It gives me something to do while I wait for you to die. I’m looking forward to that. . . . Aren’t you?”

  The hatch was locked from the inside, but by using the remote to strike the slightly concave pressure-style switch, Batkin could theoretically trigger the door. So while Vanderveen sought to keep Tragg occupied, Batkin sent the tiny device racing toward the switch. There was a loud clacking sound as the sphere made contact with the pressure switch, but the hatch remained stubbornly closed, and the spy ball knew it would be necessary to try again. “What was that?” the renegade demanded suspiciously, as he turned toward the sound.

  At least two of the Ramanthians had seen the tiny sphere hit the switch, bounce off, and sail away. But they weren’t about to say anything as the pistol-wielding madman flew into a rage. “What are you staring at?” Tragg screamed at them. “Get this ship under way, or I’ll kill every damned one of you!”

  Vanderveen chose that moment to switch personas. “This is Mary Trevane,” the diplomat said over the PA system. “You can kill them—but you can’t kill me. Because I’m already dead!”

  Batkin took advantage of the distraction to trigger the remote again. And because the robotic device was part of him, the cyborg went along for a virtual ride as the sphere sped through the air and smashed into the concave surface of the switch, a process that resulted in the electronic equivalent of pain.

  But the results were worth it as the contacts closed, power flowed, and the hatch hissed open. Tragg heard the sound and whirled. But Santana had entered the control room by that time. Both men fired, but it was the soldier’s bullet that flew true. It hit the renegade over the sternum, and while unable to penetrate Tragg’s body armor, packed enough of a whallop to throw the renegade down.

  Tragg fired both weapons as he hit the deck, but his bullets went wide as he slid backwards. A series of shots, all fired by Santana, struck various parts of the renegade’s body. One bullet creased the side of Tragg’s skull, two struck his right arm, and one smashed into his left. The mercenary’s pistols clattered as they hit the deck.

  That was the moment when a shadow fell across Tragg’s scarred face, and Vanderveen stared down at him along the barrel of a borrowed weapon. “My real name is Christine Vanderveen,” the diplomat said coldly. “This is for Marci, her brother, and me. More than that, it’s for all of those you murdered on Jericho.”

  Tragg tried to fend off the bullets with his badly broken arms, but the projectiles went right through and pulped his face. The Imperator shuddered as if in sympathy as another missile exploded against her screens. That was when the president of the Confederacy of Sentient Beings arrived on the bridge. “Now that was a nice piece of diplomacy,” Nankool remarked approvingly as he looked down at Tragg. “Good work, Christine. Let’s go home.”

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Gradually, over a period of months, what had been President Nankool’s dining room had been converted into
a chamber where Vice President Leo Jakov could receive official guests. Or, as was the case on that particular morning, sit on his thronelike chair and brood. And there was plenty to brood about because, ever since the prison break, General Booly, his wife, and the rest of the Nankool loyalists had been hard at work trying to prevent his confirmation. And with some success, too—if the rumors could be believed. Which was why Jakov felt mixed emotions as Kay Wilmot entered the room. What kind of news will she have for me? the vice president wondered as he eyed the diplomat’s face.

  Wilmot looked tired, and therefore older, which was just one of the reasons Jakov had begun to have sex with potential replacements. And there were other issues, too, such as the fact that the plump official had become far too knowledgeable about both him and his supporters, some of whom placed a high value on their privacy. That was why Wilmot wasn’t going to survive much longer regardless of how the upcoming vote turned out. “You look beautiful this morning,” Jakov lied, and waited to see her face light up.

  “Thank you,” the diplomat replied. “I’m pleased to say that I have some good news for you! There are some fence sitters of course, senators who will wait until the very last second before committing themselves, but even without their support it looks like you will be confirmed.”

  One of Jakov’s eyebrows rose slightly. “By how many votes?”

  “Two,” Wilmot answered. “But,” the assistant undersecretary hastened to add, “that hardly matters does it? A win is a win.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, since a narrow victory would inevitably be seen as a sign of weakness, but Jakov forced a smile. “Yes, of course. A win is a win.”

  The conference room adjacent to General Bill Booly’s office was full to overflowing. Maylo was there, as were Colonel Kitty Kirby, Major Drik Seeba-Ka, Margaret Xanith, and Charles Vanderveen. The crowd stirred as Sergi Chien-Chu arrived and people made room for him. “Okay, Sergi,” Booly said hopefully. “What have you got for us?”

  “Nothing good,” the cyborg answered dejectedly. “Based on my polling, it looks like Jakov will be confirmed by a narrow margin.”

  Faces fell, and there was a chorus of groans as the group absorbed the news. “There is another option,” Seeba-Ka said ominously. “The Legion’s loyalty belongs to you—not Vice President Jakov.”

  “No,” Booly replied wearily. “I know that’s the way such matters are settled on Hudatha, but Triad Doma-Sa is working to change that. We have a constitution, plus the body of law that supports it, that we’re all sworn to obey. To violate that oath is to become the very thing we despise.”

  “In spite of the fact that Jakov broke the law,” Vanderveen agreed reluctantly.

  “Unfortunately, we have no proof of that,” the legionnaire put in. “Just suspicions. So, given the political realities, I suggest that everyone prepare for the worst. You should expect to lose your jobs at a minimum. . . . And some of us may face trumped-up charges intended to put us on the defensive while Jakov and his toadies settle in. I’m sorry. I wish things were different.”

  It was a sobering assessment, and one that left Booly’s allies with no choice but to shake hands glumly and go their separate ways. Booly, Maylo, and Chien-Chu remained where they were. “Don’t be alarmed if I disappear for a while, the industrialist said as he prepared to leave. “If Jakov attempts to prosecute one or both of you—I’ll be back with the best legal team money can buy. And I’ll do everything in my power to find out what happened to Nankool as well.”

  Booly said, “Thanks,” as his wife went over to plant a kiss on her uncle’s cheek. Then, once the two of them were alone, the legionnaire took Maylo into his arms. The kiss lasted for a while. Finally, when they broke contact, Booly looked down into his wife’s beautiful face. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to leave Algeron prior to the vote.”

  “Sure I would,” Maylo replied cheerfully. “So long as you come with me.”

  Booly laughed. “Have I mentioned how annoying you are?”

  “Frequently,” the woman in his arms replied. “Does that mean you’re going to divorce me?”

  “Yes,” Booly replied. “As soon as I find the time. The problem is that I’m so busy.”

  “Too busy for this?” Maylo inquired innocently, as she put her hand where it would do the most good.

  “Hey! We’re in a conference room,” the general objected.

  “So, close the door,” Maylo responded huskily. “And let’s hold a conference.”

  And they did.

  The space that had once served as Fort Camerone’s theater had since been converted into chambers for the Senate. The huge room contained five hundred seats. They slanted down to a flat area and a raised stage. The words, “Legio Patria Nostra,” “The Legion Is Our Country,” had once been inscribed above the platform in letters six feet tall. And, in spite of the fact that they had been painted over, a keen eye could still make them out.

  The first five rows of seats were reserved for senators who, with very few exceptions, were present. Partly because activists representing both sides of the upcoming vote had been working to ensure a good turnout, but also because the confirmation process made for excellent theater, and there was a woeful lack of entertainment on Algeron.

  Most of the people present already knew how the vote was going to turn out, or believed they did, but it was common knowledge that the outcome would be close. So close that even a couple of defections could deny Jakov the presidency. That served to keep the level of tension high, and rather than posture the way they often did, the vice president’s supporters were maintaining a low-key demeanor.

  There were formalities to attend to, including the usual roll call, which preceded a long, rather dry description of the events leading up to Nankool’s disappearance and the need to replace him. That was followed by an equally boring recitation of applicable law and a review of the voting process.

  Finally, with all of that out of the way, the moment everyone had been waiting for was at hand. That was when Jakov, Wilmot, and a handful of other senior advisors slipped into the chamber and stood at the back of the room. Half a dozen airborne news cams swarmed around the politician to get tight shots as breathless reporters provided voice-over narrations of the historical moment for viewers throughout the Confederacy. Because later, once the outcome was known, the resulting reports would be sent out via the new hypercom technology—a development that was bound to revolutionize both journalism and politics.

  Then, as the senator representing Earth stepped up to the podium, the cameras darted away from Jakov, each seemingly intent on reaching the front of the room first. Booly and Maylo had seats behind the senators, in a row reserved for senior officials, and knew the networks would go to them for reaction shots.

  “The voice vote is about to begin,” the senator from Earth intoned. “Please provide your name, followed by the political entity you represent and your vote. A ‘yes’ vote is a vote to confirm—and a ‘no’ vote is a vote to deny confirmation. Now, unless there are questions, we will proceed.”

  And that was the moment when Triad Hiween Doma-Sa, who had been visibly absent from the proceedings until that point, entered the chamber via a side door. There was a thump as it closed behind him and a considerable stir as the big Hudathan made his way up onto the stage. “Good morning,” Doma-Sa said, as he turned to face the audience. “As most of you know I represent Hudatha, and I hereby invoke the provisions of paragraph 3, of page 372, of the Senate Rules and Procedures, which allow any senator who wishes to do so to make a final statement prior to a voice vote.”

  The Hudathan’s unexpected arrival, plus the nature of his demand, triggered an uproar as Jakov’s supporters voiced their objections, and the vice president’s opponents attempted to shout them down. Because like Booly’s, Doma-Sa’s loyalties were well-known. And if the triad wanted an opportunity to speak, then it would clearly be in opposition to Jakov.

  So the senator from Earth called for order, the mast
er-at-arms thumped his ceremonial staff, and the chief clerk was called upon to check paragraph 3 of page 372, to see if Doma-Sa’s assertion was correct. It soon turned out that the paragraph in question was a rather obscure section of verbiage originally intended to allow last-minute posturing by senators who were trolling for publicity. But it was rarely invoked because voice votes were rare.

  So after considerable grumbling from the vice president’s supporters, it was agreed that Doma-Sa could speak, although it immediately became apparent that a pro-Jakov politician would rise to counter whatever the triad put forward. The Hudathan’s voice rolled like thunder as he spoke. “As many of you know, I have been off-planet for the last month or so, having returned only hours ago. And it was while on Starfall, attending a diplomatic function, that I met the Egg Orno, mate to the late Senator Orno, and Ambassador Orno, who was known to many of you.”

  That statement was punctuated by a loud clatter, as Runwa Molo-Sa opened the same side door through which Doma-Sa had previously entered, thereby enabling the Egg Orno to enter the room. Because of the war, the female was the only Ramanthian present. That, plus the shimmering robe she wore, caused everyone to stare at the aristocrat as she shuffled up a ramp and onto the stage. “What’s going on here?” one of Jakov’s supporters demanded angrily as he came to his feet. “Triad Doma-Sa has the right to speak—not stage a parade!”

  That stimulated a chorus of comments both pro and con, as Booly looked at Maylo, and both of them wondered what the Hudathan was up to.