When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  That got a laugh, plus some ribald commentary that would never have been tolerated by the noncoms Throatcut had served under in the Legion. “You got that right!”

  Longride Doothman put in.

  “Save one of those whores for me!” Salwa Obobwa added eagerly, as more shots were fi?red from within the village.

  But Throatcut put forward no objection because he knew how important it was to maintain just enough discipline to get the job done and not one iota more if he wanted to remain in command.

  The villagers were beginning to emerge from their underground homes by then. The locals were only halfdressed in many cases but armed to the teeth with a mix of locally produced rifl?es, Legion-issue weapons of every possible description, and oversized Hudathan hand-medowns. And, given the rough-and-ready nature of the Naa tribespeople, the villagers would have been able to give a good account of themselves had it not been for Throatcut’s secret weapon.

  Like many of his kind, Cady Lindo had been executed for murder back on Earth, given an opportunity to trade oblivion for a place in the Legion of the Damned, and downloaded into a succession of increasingly complex electromechanical bodies until he was qualifi?ed to occupy the very latest version of the battle-tested Trooper II (T-2) combat vehicle. A ten-foot-tall machine that stood on two armored legs and could carry a single bio bod into a variety of combat environments while employing a truly devastating array of weapons ranging from an arm-mounted air-cooled .50-caliber machine gun, to an arm-mounted fast-recovery laser cannon and two shoulder-mounted missile launchers, both of which were safely stored up on the mesa that Throatcut and his gang used as a base. But Lindo had no need for missile launchers as he emerged from hiding to enter the north end of the village. Bullets began to ping against his armor, and a poorly thrown grenade went off about fi?fteen feet away, as the cyborg opened fi?re. The outgunned defenders never had a chance as they were snatched off their feet, cut to shreds, or incinerated as they attempted to fl?ee.

  Seeing that the head-on assault had failed, some of the local warriors sought to outfl?ank the mechanical monster by turning west into the protection of the rocks that backed the ravine-hugging village. But Throatcut had anticipated such a move and a force of bio bods were there to cut them down. The human named Obobwa, along with Musicplay, Fargo, and Slowspeak opened fi?re with fully automatic weapons as a dozen half-seen warriors charged into a hail of lead.

  Throatcut, who had been watching the slaughter from the top of the rock-strewn slope, began to issue new orders before the last body hit the ground. “Cease fi?re! Save your ammo! And make sure all of them are dead.”

  The bandits rose from their various hiding places, and a series of shots rang out, as Throatcut followed a steep switchbacking trail down into the now-devastated village. A comely female, armed with an old muzzle loader, popped up out of a hole. But the long-barreled rifl?e was too heavy for her, and she was still trying to aim it when Throatcut struck the side of her head with his pistol. She collapsed at his feet.

  Though no longer engaged in combat, Lindo was standing guard. Though unlikely, there was always the chance that warriors from another village would happen by, or a group of locals would return from the hunt. If so, the T-2’s sensors should pick them up, thereby giving the rest of the gang time to fl?ee or prepare themselves for combat. There were screams, interspersed by more gunfi?re, as the bandits fought their way down into the subterranean dwellings, where loot in the form of food, booze, and ammo was theirs for the taking. The older females were generally murdered, as were many of the younger ones, unless they were pretty enough to catch someone’s eye. Then they were hauled up to the surface and loaded onto one of the woolly dooths that were waiting to haul the plunder back to the mesa. Most were crying, some continued to struggle, and one committed suicide by attacking Musicplay with a kitchen knife.

  There were cubs of course. Which were typically left to fend for themselves unless they got in the way, as one youngster did when he threw a rock at Lindo. That impertinence earned the cub an energy bolt.

  Finally, having obtained what they had come for, and led by Throatcut, who rode high on the T-2’s back, the bandits followed a meandering course back toward the mesa they called home. A trip that exposed them to one of Madame X’s spy sats as it passed overhead. Back in the days when Algeron had been classifi?ed as a protectorate, a fl?y-form would have been dispatched to inspect the group. Especially in the wake of other attacks by a renegade T-2. But the planet was independent now, and theoretically responsible for protecting its own citizens, even if the new government lacked the means to do so. So no action was taken by Xanith’s analysts other than to generate a report that was copied to Senator Nodoubt Truespeak and that individual’s overworked staff.

  Seven Algeron-length days had passed by the time Throatcut and his band arrived at the base of the massive stone pillar and began the long arduous journey to the top. The sun had risen once again as the cyborg and the heavily laden dooths made their way up past an extremely treacherous rockslide to the plateau’s windswept top. A rocky spire marked the entrance to their subsurface habitation, and once there, the bandits began to dismount. Cybertech Wylie Rin came out to greet the freebooters, as did three forlorn-looking females, all of whom were put to work unloading the dooths.

  In the meantime the latest captives were taken down into a warren of underground rooms to be raped, and in one case tortured, because that was Slowspeak’s notion of sex. Some, those deemed worthy, would be kept, but the others would be put to death a few days later. Because enjoyable though the females might be, slaves require food, and the bandits had no desire to venture out more frequently than they had to.

  As night fell, and the relentless fi?ngers of the wind began to probe the ruins, a sad, keening noise was heard. It was as if the cries of those who had suffered on the mesa in the past had somehow been blended with the screams of those held there in the present to produce a time-spanning cry of anguish. But now, as in the past, no help was forthcoming.

  FORT CAMERONE, PLANET ALGERON,

  THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  It was easy to lose track of time on a planet where the days were so short, buried under a fortress where there was no natural light, immersed in a fl?ow of work that never stopped. Which was why Booly was surprised to fi?nd that after working through the artifi?cial eight-hour “night,” it was suddenly time to attend Jakov’s strategy session. A meeting in which some sort of plan would no doubt be hashed out even if doing so proved to be frustrating. The part of his job that Booly hated most.

  The offi?cer was running about fi?ve minutes late, so when Booly entered the conference room, he expected to fi?nd the other participants present. But in spite of the fact that Chien-Chu, Xanith, Doma-Sa, and Osavi were seated around the table, neither Jakov nor Wilmot was anywhere to be seen. Of course with the entire weight of the Confederacy resting upon his shoulders, it would be quite understandable if the vice president was delayed. So Booly took some food from a side table, poured himself a cup of caf, and listened as Xanith gave an informal report.

  “Bottom line, we don’t have the foggiest idea where the prisoners were taken,” the intel chief said grimly. “So, no progress there. The good news, if that’s the right word for it, is that when the Samurai and her battle group dropped into the Nebor system to investigate, they were able to recover a life pod containing a junior offi?cer from one the Gladiator’s escorts. She was able to confi?rm the essence of Captain Flerko’s hypercom message. Not the part about Nankool—but the way the trap was set. The Sam found lots of debris, but no Ramanthians, or anyone else for that matter.”

  The naval command structure would be eager to get any details they could concerning the trap, but the information wasn’t going to help locate the POWs and rescue them.

  “I haven’t got anything, either,” Chien-Chu confessed glumly. “Nor would I expect to at this early date.”

  There was more conversation, all of which was trivial, u
ntil Jakov and Wilmot arrived twenty minutes later. Rather than offer some sort of pro forma apology, as Booly expected he would, the vice president simply took a seat. And if the politician was feeling the weight of the additional responsibilities that had been thrust upon him, there was no sign of it on his freshly shaven face. “So,” Jakov began blandly, “what have you got for us?”

  Wilmot, who made it a habit to monitor Jakov’s words for indictors of where she stood, heard the word “us” and felt an immediate surge of pleasure. By including her in the sentence, the vice president had elevated her to a status higher than that of the other beings in the room! Even Triad Doma-Sa, who qualifi?ed as a visiting head of state!

  Clearly her offi?cial, as well as unoffi?cial, efforts to keep Jakov happy were working, including the rather rigorous bout of sex that had delayed them.

  “So,” Xanith concluded, as she fi?nished her report, “we don’t know where they are.”

  Jakov nodded soberly. “That’s regrettable—but understandable. I’m sure you’ll keep me informed. By the way, I’d like to hold these meetings on a regular basis. . . . Although I don’t see any need for all of you to attend. I know Triad Doma-Sa, Admiral Chien-Chu, and Professor Osavi are all very busy. With that in mind I will designate members of my personal staff to fi?ll in for them. Then we can convene the larger group when circumstances warrant. Perhaps Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would be so kind as to make the necessary arrangements.”

  Chien-Chu, who had once been president himself, couldn’t help but feel a sense of grudging admiration for the skillful manner in which he and the other Nankool loyalists had been removed from the inner circle to make room for some of the vice president’s political protégés. And there wasn’t a damned thing any of them could do about it.

  “So, unless there’s something else, I’d better get back to work,” Jakov announced lightly. “It seems that the Prithians are upset over the way Thraki freighters have started to appear in the small, out-of-the-way systems that they have traditionally served. Even though such routes couldn’t possibly be profi?table for our diminutive friends. And that raises the question of why? Both sides are waiting in my offi?ce.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Booly acknowledged. “But I would appreciate it if you could fi?nd time to take a look at the rescue plan that my staff and I hammered out.”

  “Later perhaps,” Jakov said dismissively as he came to his feet. “It saddens me to say it, but there isn’t much point in working on a rescue plan until we know where the POWs are. Even then, the realities of war, combined with other priorities, may make it diffi?cult to implement such a plan. So keep it handy, but let’s focus on our most important objective, which is winning the war.” And with that, both Jakov and Wilmot departed.

  A long silence followed the moment when the door closed. “Damn,” Xanith said fi?nally. “He doesn’t want to fi?nd the POWs.”

  “No, I think it’s President Nankool that he doesn’t want to fi?nd,” Doma-Sa said cynically. “A strategy I can easily understand since it’s the sort of thing that my people are known for!”

  All of those present knew how dangerous Hudathan politics could be, so no one chose to debate the point. “I fear you are correct old friend,” Chien-Chu said grimly.

  “But I’d like to be wrong.”

  “Well,” Booly replied thoughtfully, “let’s continue to refi?ne the rescue plan. Then, once we know where the POWs are, it will be ready to go.”

  “And if Jakov refuses to authorize a rescue mission?”

  Chien-Chu wanted to know.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the offi?cer answered stolidly.

  “Any attempt to send a rescue party without the vice president’s approval could be interpreted as treason,”

  Xanith warned.

  “And failure to try and rescue them could be regarded as treason as well,” the general replied grimly. “So let’s hope that we’re never forced to choose.”

  3.

  Any offi?cer or trooper who surrenders will be executed.

  —Ramanthian Fleet Admiral Niko Himbu

  Standard year 2846

  ABOARD THE RAMANTHIAN FREIGHTER ABUNDANT HARVEST,IN HYPERSPACE

  More than a thousand prisoners stood at the bottom of the long, narrow hull and stared up through the metal grating located a few feet above their heads. They could see lights, and the soles of their tormentor’s feet, but very little else. Christine Vanderveen was among them and, like all the rest, was extremely thirsty. Although the diplomat had been forced to surrender her watch back on the Gladiator, she fi?gured that the POWs had been aboard the freighter for about three miserable days. And like those around her, Vanderveen’s body was so conditioned to the daily schedule that it somehow knew when the rain was about to fall. That’s what the prisoners called the water, in spite of the fact that the substance that gushed out of the Ramanthian hoses had already been swallowed, processed, and pissed many times before.

  Even so, the brackish stuff tasted good, real good, to people who were desperately thirsty. Which was why Vanderveen, Nankool, and all the rest of the POWs stood with their heads thrown back and their mouths wide open.

  Many, Vanderveen included, were naked. Having willingly traded their modesty for the opportunity to take a shower. And, even though the diplomat’s body was well worth staring at, such was the condition of their dry, cottony mouths, that none of the neighboring men were looking at the diplomat lest their heads be in the wrong position when the precious liquid started to fall. All of which stemmed from the fact that the Ramanthian command structure hadn’t expected to take prisoners in the Nebor system—and had been forced to put the animals on an H

  class freighter. A ship so inadequate that even the most benefi?cent of captors would have been hard-pressed to treat the POWs well, never mind Captain Dorlu Vomin, who regarded empathy as a sign of weakness.

  But Vomin was resourceful. So, rather than sit around and complain about the burden he’d been given, the veteran freighter captain employed both his recalcitrant crew and the prisoners themselves to shift all of the cargo from Hull 2, through the connecting cross section to Hull 1, thereby making half of the H-shaped ship available to house the mostly human cargo. Then, rather than attempt to rig some sort of temporary plumbing for the undeserving POWs, Vomin came up with a more effi?cient plan. By turning hoses on the animals twice each day, the crew could not only provide the prisoners with an opportunity to drink but fl?ush their waste products into the bilges at the same time! Then, having been pumped out and purifi?ed, the water could be used again. The only problem was that the freighter’s recycling equipment was working overtime and might eventually fail under the strain. The sound of footsteps echoed between the metal bulkheads as Vomin began to pace back and forth. The Ramanthian was toying with them, and the prisoners knew it, because they’d been through the routine before. It was tempting to lower their heads until the coming diatribe ended, but they knew better than to do so. Because the wily Ramanthian had been known to start the rain halfway through one of his harangues. And once the water began to fl?ow, there would be only fi?fteen seconds in which to take advantage of it. So as Vomin began to talk, the prisoners kept their eyes focused on the grating above.

  “Good morning,” the freighter captain began evenly. “I see that you stare up at me, like fl?owers following the sun, knowing that I am the source of all life.”

  The fi?rst time Vomin had delivered one of these strange speeches, there had been jeers, catcalls, and all manner of rude noises from the prisoners standing below. But having had their “rain” shortened by ten seconds, the POWs never made that mistake again. So they stood, jaws achingly open, while Vomin strutted above them. “You will lose the war,” the Ramanthian informed the prisoners. “And for a very simple reason. Because as you gathered various cultures under a single government each polluted the rest. Weakness was piled upon weakness, and fl?aw was piled upon fl?aw, until the center of the obscenity you cal
l the Confederacy began to rot. A process that is well under way and will inevitably lead to a series of poor decisions. Decisions that my race will take advantage of.

  “Fortunately, the rest of your lives will be spent working on something worthwhile. Because there are jungles on Jericho. . . . Jungles that must be cleared for the benefi?t of our newly hatched nymphs. So as the Ramanthian rain begins to fall, I suggest that you savor each drop, knowing the full glory of the task that awaits you! That will be all.”

  As usual the hoses came on without warning as Vomin’s crew began to spray the gratings. The water cascaded down through thousands of openings to splatter grimy faces, fi?ll dry mouths, and run in gray rivulets down along necks, torsos, and legs.

  Like those around her, Vanderveen took advantage of the

  “rain” in her own unique way. The key was to keep her head back, thereby gulping as much of the heavenly liquid as possible, while the jumpsuit that hung capelike down her back absorbed additional water. Water that she would suck out of the fabric once the hoses were turned off. Some people liked to use their boots to collect water, but that involved taking them off and risking a cut. A rather dangerous thing to do given all the nasty bacteria that lived on the bilge grating.

  So Vanderveen was content to swallow what she could, take a shower, and suck water out of her overalls before pulling them on again. Something the diplomat hurried to do so that the surrounding men had only a limited amount of time to stare at her.

  Then, their thirsts momentarily quenched, the prisoners were ordered to line up against both bulkheads facing inwards. Not by the bugs, who didn’t care how the animals positioned themselves, but by their own offi?cers and noncoms. Who, with support from Nankool, were determined to maintain discipline. Especially at mealtime—which took place once each day.

  A section of grating rattled loudly as it was removed, and Vanderveen heard a sustained series of thumps, as exactly sixty cases of MSMREs (MultiSpecies Meals Ready to Eat) were dropped through the hole. The food had been scavenged from one of the Gladiator’s support ships subsequent to the battle and transferred to the freighter. Each case held twenty meals, which meant that twelve hundred meals were available, in spite of the fact that there were only 1,146 prisoners. That meant there was an overage of fi?fty-four MSMREs per day, which allowed the tightly supervised food committee to provide the Hudathan prisoners with extra calories, and to dole out additional meal components to everyone else on a rotating basis. And, since each meal consisted of a main dish along with six other items, such distributions were followed by a frenzy of trading as everyone sought to get rid of things they didn’t care for and secure those they liked.