When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  “Much as I hate to agree with the undersecretary of defense, I fear that he’s correct this time,” Ambassador Ochi put in wearily. “There’s very little to be gained by delay.”

  “I think there is something to be gained,” Vanderveen said fi?rmly, causing all of the senior offi?cials to look at her in surprise. “Losing the battle group, plus thousands of lives is bad enough,” the diplomat added. “But there’s something more at stake. . . . If we allow the Ramanthians to capture the president, and the bugs become aware of who they have, they can use him for leverage.”

  “Not if they don’t capture me,” Nankool said grimly.

  “Captain, hand me your sidearm.”

  “Not so fast,” Vanderveen insisted. “I admire your courage, Mr. President. I’m sure we all do—but what if there’s another way?”

  “Such as?” Ochi inquired skeptically, as the deck shook beneath their feet.

  “We need to fi?nd a dead crew member with at least a superfi?cial resemblance to the president and jettison his body,” the diplomat replied earnestly. “Once that’s accomplished, we can replace him.”

  “Damn! I think she’s onto something,” Secretary Hooks said approvingly as he made eye contact with Vanderveen.

  “Your father would be proud!”

  The FSO’s father, Charles Winther Vanderveen, was a well-known government offi?cial who had long been one of Nankool’s principal advisors. And while the elder Vanderveen would have been proud, he would have also been beside himself with worry had he been aware of what was taking place millions of light-years away. “We must act quickly,” the young woman said urgently. “And swear the crew to secrecy.”

  “I’ll offer to surrender,” Flerko put in. “Then, assuming that the bugs accept, we’ll stall. That should give us as much as half an hour to fi?nd a match, put the word out, and implement the plan.”

  “What about the hypercom?” Koba-Sa growled. “Can we notify LEGOM on Algeron?”

  Having lost the converted battleship Friendship, on which it usually met, the Senate had been forced to convene on the planet Algeron. Until recently it would have been impossible to send a message across such a vast distance unless it was sealed inside a message torp or carried aboard a ship. But, thanks to the breakthrough technology that had been stolen from the Ramanthians on the planet Savas, crude but effective hypercom sets had already been installed on major vessels like the Gladiator. “Yes,” Vanderveen said decisively. “They need to know about the trap—so the navy can fi?nd a way to prevent the bugs from laying another one just like it. Plus, they need to know about the rest of our plan as well, or the whole thing will fall apart.”

  Under normal circumstances any sort of suggestion from such a junior foreign service offi?cer would most likely have been quashed. But the circumstances were anything but normal, so there was clearly no time for formalities, and Nankool nodded. “Agreed. Make it happen.”

  ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN DESTROYER STAR REAPER

  Commodore Lorko was still in the destroyer’s control room when the vessel’s com offi?cer entered with the appalling, not to mention somewhat repugnant, news. The extent of the junior offi?cer’s disgust could be seen in the way he held his head and the position of his rarely used wings. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Commodore, but the enemy offered to surrender.”

  “They what?” Lorko demanded incredulously.

  “They offered to surrender,” the com offi?cer reiterated. It was all Lorko could do to maintain his composure. Because by dishonoring themselves, the humans and their allies had effectively dishonored him, and reduced what could have been a glorious victory to something less. It didn’t seem fair. Not after the risks Lorko had taken, the resistance he had overcome, and the blow that had been dealt to the enemy.

  But such was Lorko’s pride and internal strength that none of that could be seen in the way he held his body or heard in the tenor of his voice. “I see,” the commodore replied evenly. “All right, if slavery is what the animals want, then slavery is what they shall have. Order the enemy to cease fi?re, and once they do, tell our forces to do likewise. Send a heavily armed boarding party to the battleship, remove the prisoners who are fi?t for heavy labor, and set charges in all the usual places. Once the animals have been removed, I want that vessel destroyed. Captain Nuyo will take it from here. . . . I’ll be in my cabin.” And with that, Lorko left.

  Though Nuyo wasn’t especially fond of the fl?inty offi?cer, he understood the signifi?cance of the blow dealt to Old Iron Back’s honor, and felt a rising sense of anger as Lorko departed the control room. “You heard the commodore,”

  Nuyo said sternly as he turned to look at the com offi?cer.

  “And tell the battle group this as well . . . Mercy equates to weakness—and weakness will be punished. Execute.”

  ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY BATTLESHIP GLADIATOR

  Fires burned unabated at various points throughout the ship’s four-mile-long hull, the deck shook in sympathy with minor explosions, and gunfi?re could be heard as Ramanthian soldiers shot wounded crew members, people who were slow to obey their commands, or any offi?cer foolish enough to identify him or herself as such. An excess for which they were unlikely to be punished. Klaxons, beepers, and horns sounded as streams of smoke-blackened, often-wounded crew beings stumbled out of hatches and were herded out into the center of the Gladiator’s enormous hangar deck. The fact that the bay was pressurized rather than open to space spoke volumes, as did the fact that rank after rank of battle-ready CF-184 Daggers were sitting unused. The simple truth was that the ship had come under attack so quickly that Captain Flerko had never been able to drop the Gladiator’s energy screens long enough to launch fi?ghters. But there was no time to consider what could have been as Vanderveen and a group of ratings were ordered to make their way out toward the middle of the launch bay, where large metal boxes were situated. One of the prisoners, a gunner, judging from the insignia on her space black uniform, was wounded and had been able to hide the fact until then. But the sailor left a trail of blood droplets as she crossed the deck, and it wasn’t long before one of the sharpeyed troopers noticed them. Vanderveen shouted, “No!” but fell as a rifl?e butt struck her left shoulder. The diplomat heard two shots and knew the gunner was dead.

  It was Nankool who pulled the FSO to her feet before one of the troopers could become annoyed and put a bullet into her head as well. “Get going,” the president said gruffl?y. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Vanderveen had to step over the rating’s dead body in order to proceed, and realized how lucky she’d been, as a burst of automatic weapons fi?re brought down an entire rank of marines.

  The Ramanthian troopers were largely invisible inside their brown-dappled space armor. Their helmets had sidemounted portals through which their compound eyes could see the outside environment, hook-shaped protuberances designed to accommodate parrotlike beaks, and chin-fl?ares to defl?ect energy bolts away from their vulnerable neck seals.

  The vast majority of the alien soldiers wore standard armor; but the noncoms were equipped with power-assisted suits, which meant the highly leveraged warriors could rip enemy combatants apart with their grabber-style pincers. So that, plus the fact that the bugs carried Negar IV assault rifl?es capable of fi?ring up to six hundred rounds per minute, meant the aliens had more than enough fi?repower to keep the Gladiator’s crew under control. Something they accomplished with brutal effi?ciency.

  Some of the Ramanthians could speak standard, while others wore chest-mounted translation devices, and the rest made use of their rifl?e butts in order to communicate.

  “Place all personal items in the bins!” one of the powersuited noncoms ordered via a speaker clamped to his right shoulder. “Anyone who is found wearing or carrying contraband will be executed!”

  The so-called bins were actually empty cargo modules, and it wasn’t long before the waist-high containers began to fi?ll with pocketknives, wrist coms, pocket comps, multitools, glow rods, and al
l manner of jewelry. Vanderveen wasn’t carrying anything beyond the watch her parents had given her, a belt-wallet containing her ID, and a small amount of currency. All of it went into the cargo container, and Vanderveen wondered if the Ramanthians were making a mistake. A good mistake from her perspective, since it would be diffi?cult for the bugs to sort out who was who once the military personnel surrendered their dog tags. A factor that would help protect Nankool’s new identity. Which, were anyone to ask him, was that of Chief Petty Offi?cer Milo Kruse. A portly noncom who had reportedly been incinerated when molten plasma spilled out of the number three exhaust vent into the Gladiator’s main corridor.

  Now, as various lines snaked past the bins, a series of half-coherent orders were used to herd the crew beings into groups of one hundred. Vanderveen thought she saw Ochi’s exoskeleton in the distance, but couldn’t be sure, as a Ramanthian trooper shouted orders. “Form ten ranks! Strip off your clothing! Failure to comply will result in death.”

  Similar orders were being given all around, and at least a dozen gunshots were heard as the Ramanthians executed prisoners foolish enough to object or perceived to be excessively slow. Meanwhile, Undersecretary of Defense Calisco hurried to rid himself of his pants, but was momentarily distracted when he looked up to see that one of his fantasies had come true! Christine Vanderveen had removed her top and unhooked her bra! She had fi?rm upthrust breasts, just as he had imagined that she would, and the offi?cial was in the process of licking his lips when Nankool’s left elbow dug into his side. “Put your eyeballs back in your head,” the president growled menacingly,

  “or I’ll kick your ass!” So Calisco looked down but continued to eye the diplomat via his peripheral vision, which was quite good.

  Vanderveen stood with her arms folded over her breasts as a Ramanthian offi?cer mounted a roll-around maintenance platform. Meanwhile a cadre of naked crew beings, all picked at random from the crowd, hurried to collect the discarded clothing and carry it away. “You are disgusting,”

  the offi?cer began, as his much-amplifi?ed voice boomed through the hangar deck. “Look at the bulkhead behind me. Read the words written there. ‘For glory and honor.’

  That was the motto you chose! Yet you possess neither one of them.”

  The deck shuddered, as if in response to the alien’s words, and a dull thump was transmitted through many layers of durasteel. Some of the Gladiator’s computer-controlled fi?refi?ghting equipment remained in operation, and the ship’s maintenance bots were doing what they could to stabilize the systems they were responsible for, but without help from her crew, the ship was dying.

  “Why are you alive?” the Ramanthian demanded through the loudspeaker on his shoulder. “When any selfrespecting warrior would be dead? The answer is simple. You aren’t warriors. You’re animals! As such your purpose is to serve higher life-forms. From here you will be taken to a Ramanthian planet, where you will work until you can work no longer. Or, perhaps some of you who would prefer to die now, thereby demonstrating that you are something more than beasts of burden.”

  The offi?cer’s words were punctuated by a bellow of rage as General Wian Koba-Sa charged through the ranks in front of him. A Negar IV assault rifl?e began to bark rhythmically as a Ramanthian soldier opened fi?re—and Vanderveen saw the Hudathan stumble as he took two rounds in the back. But that wasn’t enough to bring the huge alien down—and there was a cheer, as Koba-Sa jumped up onto the maintenance platform. The formerly arrogant Ramanthian had started to backpedal by that time, but it was too late as the Hudathan shouted the traditional war cry, and a hundred voices answered, “Blood!”

  And there was blood as Koba-Sa wrapped one gigantic hand around the Ramanthian’s throat and brought the other up under the fl?ared chin guard. The helmet didn’t come off the way the Hudathan had hoped it would, but the blow was suffi?cient to snap the bug’s neck, even as Koba-Sa fell to a hail of bullets.

  Then all of the prisoners were forced to hit the deck as the Ramanthians opened fi?re on the helpless crowd, and didn’t stop until an offi?cer repeatedly ordered them to do so, but only after many of the soldiers had emptied their clips.

  Dozens of bodies lay sprawled on the deck by that time, but there was something different about the crew beings still able to stand, and the emotion that pervaded the hangar. Because rather than the feeling of hopelessness that fi?lled the bay before—Vanderveen sensed a strange sort of pride. As if Koba-Sa’s valiant death had somehow infused the prisoners with some of the Hudathan’s headstrong courage.

  And, rather than attempt to humiliate the POWs as the previous offi?cer had, Vanderveen noticed that his replacement was content to line the survivors up and march them past tables loaded with blue ship suits and hundreds of boots. All taken from the Gladiator’s own storerooms. But there was no opportunity to check sizes, or to try anything on, as the prisoners were herded past. The best strategy was to grab what was available and trade that for something better later on.

  And it was during that process that one of ship’s main magazines blew, people struggled to keep their feet, and the entire operation went into high gear. The Ramanthians were afraid now, afraid that the ship would disintegrate with them still aboard. So Vanderveen and all of the rest were herded into the waiting shuttles. The air was warm, thanks to the heat from their engines, and heavily tainted with the stench of ozone.

  It didn’t take a genius to fi?gure out that there were more prisoners than the twenty shuttles could hold. And Vanderveen knew that meant that some of the Gladiator’s crew would be left behind. Other people began to realize the same thing, and there was a mad rush to board the spaceships. Guards fi?red over the crowd in a futile attempt to stem the fl?ood, but suddenly realized that they could be left behind and hurried to join the fear-crazed mob. Vanderveen wasn’t sure she wanted to board one of the shuttles, especially if there was an opportunity to enter one of the Gladiator’s many escape pods instead; but she never got the chance to do more than think about the alternative as the people behind her pushed the FSO forward. Naked bodies collided with hers, an elbow jabbed her ribs, and the man directly in front of the diplomat went down.

  Vanderveen attempted to step over the body but couldn’t, and felt the crewman’s back give as she was forced to put her weight on it, and tried to shout an apology as the river of fl?esh carried her up a ramp and into one of the shuttles.

  There were bench-style seats along both bulkheads, but no one got the opportunity to sit on them, as the lead POWs were pushed forward and smashed against the bulkhead. Fortunately, Nankool was there, ordering people to be calm, and somehow convincing them to do so.

  Then the ramp was retracted, Vanderveen felt the shuttle lift off and start to move. There were lights, but not very many, and only a few viewports. However, the diplomat was close enough to see dozens of screaming, kicking prisoners sucked out of the launch bay into the airless abyss of space as massive doors parted.

  The shuttle jerked back and forth as the Ramanthian pilot was forced to thread his way through a maze of fl?oating debris before fi?nally clearing the battle zone. Then, as the spaceship began to turn away, there was a massive explosion. Bright light strobed the inside the of the shuttle, but there was no sound, as the Gladiator came apart. Someone began to pray, and even though Vanderveen had never been very religious, she bowed her head. The journey to hell had begun.

  For those who would rule, the greatest threat can often be found standing right next to them, with a well-honed blade and a ready smile.

  2.

  —Lin Po Lee

  Philosopher Emeritus, The League of PlanetsStandard year 2169

  FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON,

  THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  As a stream of formally attired dignitaries shuffl?ed in through the double doors, Legion General William “Bill”

  Booly III, and his wife, Maylo Chien-Chu, were forced to pause while the colorfully plumed Prithian ambassador was announced to the crowd beyo
nd. That gave the couple a moment in which to look at what normally functioned as the fort’s mess hall but, having been commandeered for the vice president’s fi?rst annual military ball, had magically been transformed into a ballroom.

  All of the grim posters cautioning legionnaires about the dangers of land mines, unsecured weapons, and sexually transmitted diseases had been replaced by yard upon yard of colorful bunting that hung in carefully measured scallops along the walls. The previously green support columns had been painted white, detailed to look like marble, and hung with pots of artifi?cial fl?owers. The normally bare mess tables wore crisp white bedsheets. And the Legion’s best silver, which had been brought up out of the vaults for the occasion, sparkled with refl?ected candlelight. Additional color was provided by dress uniforms and the clothing worn by civilians, senators, and other government offi?cials. It was quite a transformation, but Booly had never been one for parties and frowned accordingly.

  “It looks like a rim world whorehouse,” the offi?cer observed in a voice so low that only his wife could hear it. Besides being Booly’s wife, Maylo Chien-Chu was president of a vast business empire founded by her uncle, Sergi Chien-Chu, and a natural beauty. She had raven black hair, large almond-shaped eyes, and the high cheekbones of a model. The stiff-collared red sheath dress clung to her long lean body like a second skin and had already begun to attract attention from both men and women alike. She smiled and gave her husband’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t be such a grump. People need to relax once in a while. Besides, when did you become an expert on rim world whorehouses?”

  Booly might have made a response but never got the chance, since that was the moment when the formally attired sergeant major announced both their names and brought his intricately carved staff down with a decisive thump.

  “General William Booly—and Ms. Maylo Chien-Chu.”

  As the senior offi?cer on Algeron, or anywhere else, for that matter, Booly was a someone in the small, highly charged world of the Confederacy’s wartime government. And given the fact that there were always plenty of people who wanted to curry favor with the offi?cer’s billionaire wife, the two of them were soon hard at work maintaining important relationships, resisting tidal waves of fl?attery, and listening for the nuggets of information that are accidentally or intentionally shared at such affairs. Tidbits that can be stored, used, or traded according to need. Meanwhile, the Legion’s band continued to play, there was a stir as the by now red-faced sergeant major announced, “Vice President Leo Jakov, and Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot.” The words were punctuated with another thump of his heavy staff. The vice president was theoretically the number two person in the government, but actually had very little power, so long as the president was capable of performing his or her duties. Jakov had thick black hair, a vid-star-handsome face, and a full, some said sensual, mouth. His body, which was thick without being fat, seemed to radiate physical power. This fact was not lost on what were said to be dozens of lovers, some of whom were not only well-known, but willing to testify regarding his sexual prowess.