When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  “So,” Tragg continued conversationally, “while you consider the very real possibility that your life is about to end, let’s go over what everyone else will be doing for the next few days. Given the fact that our hosts are a bit strapped for ground transportation, most of you will be required to walk the 146 miles to Jericho Prime, where you will take part in a rather interesting construction project. More on that later. . . . Now that you know where you’re going, and why, it’s time to shoot one of you in the head, something I prefer to do personally rather than delegate the task to one of my robots.”

  A murmur ran through the ranks, and the assemblage started to shift, as some of the POWs made as if to attack, and others considered making a run for it. But the robots had raised their energy projectors by that time, and the Ramanthian troopers were at the ready, which meant neither strategy stood any chance of success. Seeing that, and hoping to avoid a bloodbath, Schell shouted an order. “As you were!” Surprisingly, the prisoners obeyed, as Tragg drew a chromed pistol, and aimed the weapon at the crowd.

  Some people fl?inched as the gun panned from left to right and fi?nally came to rest. Vanderveen found herself looking right into the renegade’s gun barrel, knew her intuition had been correct, and closed her eyes. The diplomat heard a loud bang, followed by a communal groan, and opened her eyes to discover that she was still alive. But the young woman who had been standing not three feet away wasn’t. Her body lay in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. The fi?rst thing Vanderveen felt was a sense of relief, quickly followed by a wave of shame, as the victim’s name echoed through the crowd. “Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya, Moya.” The sound of it continued, like the soft rustle of wind that sometimes precedes a rainstorm, and eventually died away as the name was repeated by the last rank of POWs. “Lieutenant Moya,” Hooks demanded incredulously. “Why?”

  More than a thousand beings were assembled on the tarmac, and while Vanderveen knew very few of them, she had been aware of Moya. Partly because the offi?cer had been assigned to serve as liaison with Nankool’s staff, and partly because the young woman was so beautiful that she seemed to glow, which attracted attention from males and females alike. Because for better or worse, human beings were wired to pay attention to the most attractive members of the species and fi?nd ways to please them, a reality the diplomat occasionally took advantage of herself.

  And suddenly, as that thought crossed Vanderveen’s mind, the diplomat realized that she knew the answer to the question Hooks had posed. Moya had been murdered because of the way she looked. Had Tragg been rejected because of his face? Yes, the FSO decided, chances were that he had. So to kill Moya was to kill all of the women who had refused him. Or was that too facile? No, the diplomat concluded, it wasn’t. Because deep down Vanderveen knew that she had been considered, found wanting, and dismissed in favor of Moya.

  “Good,” Tragg said as he holstered the recently fi?red pistol. “Very good. I’m glad to see that we have been able to establish a good working relationship in such short order. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow the red remote, it will lead you to a pile of packs. Each pack contains a basic issue of food and other items that you will need during the next few days. You can leave your pack behind, consume all of your food on the fi?rst day, or ration it out. That’s up to you. . . . But it’s all you’re going to get until we arrive at Jericho Prime. And remember, the Ramanthian guards don’t like you, so don’t piss them off! That will be all.”

  As if on cue, a dozen Ramanthian sphere-shaped remotes sailed into the area from the direction of the lowlying terminal and immediately took up positions above the POWs. Each robot was armed with a stun gun, a spotlight, and a speaker, but only one of them was red. It led Schell, and therefore the rest of the prisoners, out across the tarmac and toward the jungle on the far side. Lieutenant Moya lay where she had fallen, the fi?rst POW to die on Jericho, but certainly not the last.

  4.

  Peace is very apoplexy, lethargy: mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible: a getter of more bastard children, than war is a destroyer of men.

  —William Shakespeare

  Coriolanus

  Standard year 1607

  PLANET EARTH, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Having landed at Vandenberg Spaceport, and rented a ground car, Captain Antonio Santana drove north toward the metroplex that now encompassed what had once been the separate cities of San Francisco, Vallejo, Berkeley, Oakland, Hayward, Sunnyvale, and San Jose.

  It had been a long time since the legionnaire had been on what some still referred to as “Mother Earth.” Having spent extended periods of time on primitive worlds like LaNor and Savas, it was diffi?cult to adjust to the fl?ood of high-intensity sensory input, as the skyscraper “skins” that lined both sides of the elevated expressway morphed into a single panoramic advertisement, and sleek sports cars passed him at 130 miles per hour. Meanwhile the onboard computer fed him an unending stream of unsolicited advice, which the soldier managed to escape by switching to autopilot and allowing the Vehicle Traffi?c Control System (VTCS) to drive the car for him.

  A not-altogether-comfortable experience since the computers that controlled the system were primarily interested in moving Santana through the metroplex as quickly as possible. He felt the car accelerate and gave in to the urge to look back over his left shoulder as the VTCS steered his vehicle into the fast lane. It was a scary moment since a single electronic glitch could cause a massive pileup and cost hundreds of lives. But there hadn’t been one of those in years, or so the onboard computer claimed, not that the assertion made Santana feel any better.

  What did make the offi?cer feel good, however, was the knowledge that the Ramanthians wouldn’t be shooting at him anytime soon and that he was about to be reunited with Christine Vanderveen, the beautiful diplomat he had met on LaNor.

  There was a downside, however, and that was the fact that Santana was on his way to see both Vanderveen and her parents, wealthy upper-crust types with whom a junior offi?cer from humble beginnings was unlikely to be comfortable. Of course, the fact that Vanderveen wanted him to meet her family was a good sign and suggested that the diplomat wanted to continue the relationship that had begun within the Imperial City of Polwa and eventually been consummated in the hills off to the west. And that, from his perspective, was nothing short of an out-and-out miracle. So as the enclosed highway dove under San Francisco Bay and made a beeline for the community of Napa, Santana felt a sense of anticipation mixed with concern. He’d been through a lot since LaNor, and so had she, so would the chemistry be intact? And what about her folks? They couldn’t possibly be looking forward to his arrival. Not given his working-class origins. But would they give him a chance? And assuming they did—would he be able to take advantage of it? Or wind up making a fool of himself?

  Those questions and more were still on Santana’s mind as what had mysteriously turned into Highway 80 surfaced just north of the hundred-foot-tall seawall that kept the bay from fl?ooding the burbs and the traffi?c control system shunted the rental car onto a secondary road that led to the gated community known as “Napa Estates,” a huge area that included all of what had once been called “wine country,” and was protected by a twelve-foot-high steelreinforced duracrete blastproof “riot wall.” Which was designed to keep people like him out.

  There was a backup, and Santana had to wait fi?fteen minutes before he fi?nally pulled up to one of four inbound security gates. That was where an ex-legionnaire with a face so lined that it looked like one of the Legion’s topo maps scrutinized the offi?cer’s military ID and shook his head sadly. “Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to put you through the wringer. No exceptions.”

  Santana nodded. The fact that the legionnaire had fought for the Confederacy on distant worlds, and been separated from the military with a retirement so small that he had to work, was just plain wrong—a problem only partially addressed in the wake of the great mutiny. “What regiment?”

  the offi?cer inquired, as the v
eteran scanned his retinas.

  “The 13th Demi-Brigade de Legion Etrangere, sir,” the guard answered proudly. “We fought the Hudathans on Algeron and whipped ’em good!”

  “You sure as hell did,” Santana agreed soberly. “I’ve seen the graves.”

  “And if the frigging bugs make it to Earth, you’ll see some more,” the legionnaire predicted grimly. “There’s plenty like me—and we still know how to fi?ght.”

  The comment raised still another issue, and that was the fact that with the exception of people like the elderly security guard, no one seemed to be worried about the war with the Ramanthians. In fact, based on what the offi?cer had seen so far, it was as if the citizens of Earth were only marginally aware that a war was being fought. A rather sad state of affairs given all the sentients who had died in order to protect their planet.

  “Your invitation cleared,” the old soldier announced, and delivered a textbook-perfect salute. “Vive la Légion!”

  “Vive la Légion,” Santana agreed, and returned the gesture of respect. Thirty seconds later he was inside Napa Estates and driving north along a four-lane road that took him past all manner of formal entries, gently curving driveways, and mansions set back among the vineyards the area was so famous for. Many of the estates included their own wineries, which in the case of the larger operations, were allowed to produce a few thousand bottles for sale. But those were the exception, since most of the residents made their money in other ways and preferred to consume the wine they produced rather than sell it. All of which seemed fi?ne on the one hand, since Santana believed in free enterprise, yet bothered him as well since there were those like the security guard who had risked everything to protect Earth and been denied a respectable retirement. It was a fate that might very well befall him if he wasn’t careful.

  The common areas, like the broad swatches of irrigated grass that fronted the streets, were groomed to perfection. So each estate was like an individual element within a larger work of art. Nothing like the military housing in which Santana had spent his youth, prior to being accepted into the academy, where experts turned him into a gentleman. But acting like the people who lived in the mansions to the left and right of him was one thing—and being like them was something else. Just one of the reasons why Santana slowed the car as he topped a rise, spotted the house that Vanderveen had described to him, and looked for a spot where he could safely pull off the road. Then, having accessed his luggage, the offi?cer did what any sensible legionnaire would do prior to launching an assault on an enemy-held objective. He took a small but powerful set of binos, waited for a break in traffi?c, and crossed the road. A camera mounted high atop the nearest streetlamp tracked his movements.

  The grassy verge sloped up to a waist-high stone wall that served to defi?ne the estate’s boundaries. And, judging from appearances, the Vanderveen property was quite large. As Santana brought the glasses up to his eyes and panned from left to right, he saw rows of meticulously pruned vines that were the ultimate source of the Riesling that the Vanderveen family was so proud of. He could also see some pasture beyond, a white horse that might have been the one the diplomat liked to ride, and a cluster of immaculate outbuildings. The house itself was a straightforward three-story Tudor, and Santana knew that it was within that structure that the woman he loved had been raised, prior to being sent off to a series of expensive boarding schools.

  But rather than pursue a career in science or business as she easily could have—Vanderveen had chosen to follow her father into the world of politics and diplomacy. A not especially profi?table career path, but one that Charles Winther Vanderveen could well afford, thanks to his inherited wealth.

  Santana heard a whirring sound, felt a puff of displaced air hit the back of his neck, and was already in the process of turning and reaching for a nonexistent sidearm when the airborne robot spoke. “Raise your hands and stay where you are,” the globe-shaped device advised sternly.

  “Or I will be forced to stun you consistent with Community S-reg Covenant 456.7.”

  Santana raised his hands, and was forced to answer a series of security-related questions before the robot fi?nally offered a pro forma apology and sailed away. The incident was humiliating, and if it hadn’t been for the opportunity to spend time with Vanderveen, the soldier would have left Napa there and then.

  Having guided his rental car in between the stylized stone lions that stood guard to either side of the steel gate, Santana was forced to pause while a scanner checked his retinas. Only then was he allowed to proceed up the gently curving driveway that passed between an ornate fountain and the front of the house. Strangely, the mixture of emotions that Santana felt was reminiscent of going into combat. The well-packed gravel made a subtle crunching sound as the tires passed over it, and by the time the vehicle rolled to a stop, a woman dressed in riding clothes was already exiting the front door followed by two human servants and a domestic robot. She had carefully coiffed gray hair, a slim athletic build, and covered the distance to the car in a series of leggy strides.

  But what Santana found most striking of all was the woman’s face, which though older, was so similar to her daughter’s that there was absolutely no doubt as to who she was. “Captain Santana!” Margaret Vanderveen said enthusiastically. “We’re so glad you’re here! I hope the trip up from Vandenberg was comfortable.”

  Prior to making the journey, Santana had been careful to brush up on proper etiquette, and therefore waited for his hostess to extend her hand before reaching out to shake it. The grip was strong and fi?rm, as was to be expected of someone who worked side by side with the people who tended her vines. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,”

  Santana said formally. “I can see where Christina got her looks.”

  “Please call me Margaret,” the woman replied easily.

  “And I can see how you managed to turn my daughter’s head! Please, come in. Thomas, Mary, and John will take care of your car and luggage.”

  Santana wondered which name applied to the robot, as he turned to retrieve a professionally wrapped package from the backseat, before allowing himself to be led inside. A formal entranceway emptied into a spacious great room that looked out over verdant pasture toward a turreted home perched on a distant hill. Though large, the home seemed smaller than it was because of all the artwork that Charles Vanderveen had not only inherited but brought home from a dozen different worlds. All of which had been integrated into an interior that was both eclectic and warm. A tribute to Margaret Vanderveen’s eye—or that of a professional decorator.

  “Please,” Margaret Vanderveen said. “Have a seat. What can I get for you? A drink perhaps? I’d offer something to eat, but dinner is only an hour away, and Maria would be most unhappy if I were to spoil your appetite.”

  “A drink sounds good,” Santana allowed. “A gin and tonic if that’s convenient.”

  “It certainly is,” the matron replied as she rang a little bell. “And I think I’ll join you.”

  There was the soft whir of servos as the robot appeared, took their orders, and left the room. Santana took that as his opportunity to present Mrs. Vanderveen with the carefully wrapped box. “Here,” he said awkwardly. “I had this made on LaNor.”

  As Margaret Vanderveen accepted the present, she discovered that it was surprisingly heavy. Although hostess gifts weren’t important to her, the fact that the young offi?cer had gone to the trouble of bringing one spoke to his manners, and a desire to make a good impression. Both of which were promising signs. Especially given his roughand-tumble beginnings. “Why, thank you, Antonio! That was unnecessary, but the Vanderveen women love presents, so I therefore refuse to give it back.”

  Mrs. Vanderveen was clearly attempting to be nice to him, so Santana allowed himself to relax slightly and wondered where Christine was. Out for a ride perhaps? Or gone shopping? There was no way to know, and he was afraid to ask lest the question seem rude. The wrapping paper rattled as Margaret Vanderveen took
it off to reveal a highly polished wooden box. Intricate relief carvings covered the top and all four sides. Later, when the matron had time to examine them more closely, she would discover that they were battle scenes in which her daughter had played a role.

  But given the weight of the object, Margaret Vanderveen knew that the box had been designed to contain something more important. Something which, judging from Santana’s expression, he hoped she would like. Having found all of the little brass hooks that held the lid in place, Mrs. Vanderveen pushed each of them out of the way and removed the top. A sculpture nestled within.

  “There are some truly remarkable artisans on LaNor,”

  Santana explained. “The locals refer to the carvers as ‘wood poets,’ and for good reason.”

  As Margaret Vanderveen removed the wood sculpture from its case she found herself looking at a likeness of her daughter’s face that was so lifelike that it took her breath away. And then, before she could clamp down on what her mother would have regarded as an inappropriate display of emotion, tears began to fl?ow down her cheeks. “It’s very beautiful,” the matron said feelingly. “And, outside of Christina herself, perhaps the nicest gift that I have ever received. Thank you.”

  The reaction was much stronger than anything Santana might have hoped for, but he wasn’t sure how to handle it, and he felt a tremendous sense of relief when the robot arrived with their drinks. That gave Mrs. Vanderveen an opportunity to excuse herself for a moment. Her eyes were dry when she returned. “Sorry about that,” she said. “But the likeness is so good that it took me off guard. Antonio—”