When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  “Uh-oh,” the short man said, as his voice boomed over the bar’s PA system. “It looks like the odds are about to change!”

  Santana saw that two additional sailors were climbing into the ring, both confi?dent of an easy victory. Suddenly the odds against the lone legionnaire had changed from three to one to fi?ve to one. But rather than leave the ring as she logically should have—the woman continued to jab the air in front of her.

  Santana sensed movement and turned to fi?nd that the waitress with the large breasts had arrived with his steak. The huge slab of meat was still sizzling, and the smell made his stomach growl. “That looks good,” the offi?cer said as he got up from the table. “Keep it hot for me.”

  The waitress glanced toward the ring and back again.

  “Okay, hon, but you’ll have to pay now. Because if those sailors send you to the hospital, then the boss will take your dinner out of my pay.”

  Santana sighed, paid for the steak, and threw in a substantial tip. “Like I said, keep my food warm.”

  The waitress wondered why such a good-looking man would want to get his face messed up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, honey,” she said kindly. “Your steak will be waiting in the kitchen.”

  “Wait a minute!” the short man proclaimed, as Santana began to make his way down the aisle. “What have we here? A legionnaire perhaps? A knight in shining armor?

  Let’s hear it for our latest contestant!”

  Everyone, the sailors included, wanted a real contest, so a cheer went up as the offi?cer removed his shirt and shucked his shoes. The MC gave Santana a mouthpiece and pointed to the lengths of tape that hung from one of the side-ropes. “Help yourself, bud, and good luck to ya. . . .”

  As Santana began to wrap his hands, his brain kicked into high gear. The latest sailors to enter the ring were clearly inebriated. Would it make more sense to take them out fi?rst? Assuming that such a thing was possible. Or leave the drunks in, hoping they would get in the way?

  And what plans if any did his new ally have in mind?

  As Santana climbed into the ring the naval contingent handed a bottle of booze up to their team, who continued to trash-talk the Legion, while passing the bottle around. That gave the legionnaire a chance to get acquainted with his teammate. “My name’s Santana. . . . And you are?”

  Before the young woman could answer, it was fi?rst necessary to remove the protective device from her mouth. Her left eye was swollen shut by that time—and Santana could see that her upper lip was puffy as well. “Gomez,”

  the woman said thickly. “Corporal Maria Gomez.”

  “Glad to meet you, Corporal,” the offi?cer said. “Although I wish the circumstances were different.”

  The eye that Santana could see was brown and fi?lled with hostile intelligence. “You’re an offi?cer,” she said accusingly. The statement was tinged with disappointment. Santana raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I am. Is that a problem?”

  “It could be,” the noncom said fl?atly. “No offense, sir, but when was the last time you were in a barroom brawl?”

  Santana had been fi?ghting for his life only two months before, but he knew what the soldier meant, and he answered in kind. “Ten, maybe twelve years ago.”

  “Then I’d say you’re a bit rusty,” Gomez replied. “Sir.”

  The honorifi?c had been added as an obvious afterthought, and Santana couldn’t help but grin. “You don’t like offi?cers much, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t go to a meeting without one,” Gomez replied disrespectfully. “But when it comes to a fi?stfi?ght, then no sir, I don’t have much use for ’em.”

  “Fair enough,” Santana replied gravely. “So, given your obvious expertise, how should we proceed?”

  “We’ll take a corner and defend it,” the noncom replied confi?dently. “And, since at least two of the swabbies are drunk, they’ll get in the way as their buddies try to rush us.”

  “I like it,” Santana said agreeably. “What sort of intel can you provide?”

  “None of them use their feet well,” Gomez answered clinically. “But the big bastard has plenty of power—

  which is why I was standing here all by myself until you showed up.”

  “No,” Santana objected. “That’s why you were alone, not why you were standing here. Maybe you would be kind enough to explain that to me.”

  Something fl?ickered deep within the noncom’s good eye. “I’m here because I like a good fi?ght, no fucking asshole has been able to put me down so far, and the Legion don’t run.”

  Santana might have answered, but the gong sounded, a cheer went up, and the battle was on. There wasn’t any ceremony. Just a loud bong, followed by a reedy cheer, as Gomez and Santana bit their mouthpieces. They stood side by side, with their backs to a corner, a strategy that made it diffi?cult if not impossible to attack them from behind.

  Like Gomez, Santana had been taught the fi?ne art of kickboxing by the Legion, which considered the sport to be the martial art of choice for everyone other than special ops. They were expected to master other disciplines as well. But, as both of them assumed the correct stance, Santana could see that his teammate’s form was superior to his. So the legionnaire brought his eyes up, tucked his elbows in against his ribs, and reduced the distance between his legs. The offi?cer knew the key was to put about 50percent of his weight on each leg, with his right foot slightly forward and fi?sts held shoulder high. Gomez saw the adjustments, nodded approvingly, and made a minute adjustment where her attitude toward offi?cers was concerned.

  In the meantime, the sailors were closing in. Given their recent successes against the legionnaires, plus the advantage that went with numerical superiority, the navy team expected an easy victory. Because of that, plus the scrutiny of those in the audience, the entire group wanted in on the kill. So the sailors charged in, but given the way the space narrowed, only three were able to make direct contact. That improved the odds as the fi?rst blows were struck.

  The main reason that Gomez was still on her feet was the legionnaire’s ability to kick. Because most men had more upper-body strength than she did, the noncom knew the battle would be over if they got their hands on her. So now, as a drunk shuffl?ed forward, Gomez brought her right leg up in the bent position and struck with the ball of her foot. The sailor saw the kick coming, made a clumsy attempt to block it, but was way too slow. The blow struck his sternum, forced the air out of his lungs, and sent him reeling backwards.

  That was when the rating collided with one of the two men who had been forced to wait and knocked the unfortunate sailor off his feet. Both went down in a fl?urry of uncoordinated arms and legs. The marines in the audience thought that was funny and laughed uproariously. Meanwhile, Santana was fi?ghting to hold his own against the man Gomez had warned him about. The sailor wasn’t a kickboxer, and didn’t need to be, given powerful shoulders and a quick pair of hands. Worse yet was the fact that the big noncom was taller and heavier than the legionnaire was.

  The offi?cer managed to defl?ect another blow with raised hands, fl?icked his head to one side, and felt a searing pain as a bony fi?st grazed the left side of his head. His ear was on fi?re, and Santana resisted the temptation to reach back and touch it. The gunner’s mate grinned happily and shuffl?ed his size-fourteen feet.

  The legionnaire could smell the other man’s foul breath as he took a step backwards and readied a front-leg roundkick. With his leg cocked, the offi?cer turned sideways and put everything he had into the kick. Santana heard a satisfying grunt as his shin made contact with the other man’s groin. But the noncom was wearing a protective cup, so other than being forced to take a couple of involuntary steps backwards, the sailor was largely unaffected. The momentary respite gave Santana the opportunity to pummel the second drunk with a series of quick jabs, the last of which brought a torrent of blood gushing out of his nose. Then, as the unfortunate rating sought to stem the fl?ow with his fi?ngers, a blow from Gomez put the drunk down for good. But f
our opponents were still on their feet—and they were pissed.

  Having been bested once, and chided for it by the audience, the fi?rst drunk was determined to teach the Legion bitch a lesson. And, foggy though his thinking was, he knew her feet were the key. In an act that was part inspiration and part desperation, the rating made a diving grab for the woman’s legs.

  Gomez saw the move coming, tried to leap up out of the way, but was a hair too slow. A pair of powerful arms wrapped themselves around her calves, the noncom came crashing down, and a loud cheer went up. “Stomp her!”

  someone shouted, and two of the sailors were quick to seize upon the opportunity.

  Unable to rise, and therefore unable to protect herself, all Gomez could do was curl up in the fetal position and try to protect her head as dozens of blows connected with her body. The sailors weren’t wearing boots, thank God. . . . But each kick hurt like hell.

  Santana wanted to help, and would have, had it not been for the big sailor with the ham-sized fi?sts. The two of them had traded at least a dozen blows by that time, but in spite of the new cut over the noncom’s right eye, the swabbie showed no signs of tiring. If anything, the gunner’s mate appeared to be enjoying himself. Finally, Santana locked both hands together, brought them down over the other man’s head, and jerked him in close. Then, having shifted his weight to his front leg, the legionnaire brought the other leg up in a classic side-knee strike. He felt the blow connect with the petty offi?cer’s solar plexus, knew he had scored, and heard a shrill whistle. Somebody shouted, “Freeze! Military Police!”

  Santana would have been happy to obey the order, except one of the men who had formerly been stomping Gomez, chose that particular moment to take a roundhouse swing at his head. The blow connected, the lights went out, and it felt as if someone had snatched the platform out from under the legionnaire’s feet. There was a long fall into darkness followed by a wonderful feeling of peace. The fi?ght was over.

  5

  There can be no greater battle than that fought within the heart and mind of a prisoner of war.

  —Grand Marshal Nimu Worla-Ka (ret.)

  Instructor, Hudathan War College

  Standard year 1957

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Had it not been for the way in which Overseer Tragg murdered Lieutenant Moya, and left her body to rot on the spaceport’s tarmac, the fi?rst few hours of the 146-mile hike might have been somewhat enjoyable. Especially since it was a sunny day, the terrain was relatively fl?at, and they were no longer aboard Captain Vomin’s claustrophobic freighter. However, most of the prisoners could still feel the fear, hear the gunshot, and see the young woman’s dead body as it lay on the pavement. And that, Vanderveen knew, was no accident. Tragg had a powerful ally, and it was fear. So there was very little conversation as the long column of Confederacy prisoners followed a crude trail though the triple-canopy forest. There wasn’t much ground vegetation because very little sunlight could reach the ground. What there was fell in patches and bathed each prisoner in liquid gold as he or she passed through it. A cacophony of bird sounds rang through the jungle, and Vanderveen heard mysterious rustlings as small animals hurried to escape the alien invaders, and brightly colored insects darted back and forth. There was a brief rainstorm about an hour into the journey, and the raindrops made a gentle rattling sound as they exploded against thousands of waxy leaves. The diplomat felt refreshed once the rain stopped, but not for long, as both the temperature and humidity continued to increase.

  Meanwhile what had begun as a relatively easy march gradually became more arduous as the trail trended upwards. The column slowed as those in the lead struggled up a long, slippery hillside, topped a gently rounded hill, and slip-slid down into a ravine. The only way out was to climb a stairway of intertwined tree roots. It was a treacherous business at best since some of the cablelike structures were unexpectedly brittle, others had the ability to pull themselves up out of reach, and at least one sturdylooking tuber morphed into an angry snake when a naval rating wrapped his fi?ngers around it.

  Fortunately Vanderveen, Nankool, Hooks, and Calisco were among those at the head of the column. Because once two or three hundred sets of boots passed through an area, solid ground was quickly transformed into mud, which forced those following behind to work even harder. Adding to the diffi?culty of the march was the fact that with the exception of the marines, very few of the prisoners were physically prepared for that sort of journey. President Nankool was an excellent example. While the chief executive was able to hold his own during the fi?rst few hours of the journey, he soon began to pant and was forced to pause every few minutes. Then, when it came to clambering up over the ridge, he needed assistance from Vanderveen and others, which placed even more stress on them.

  Fortunately, a marine named Cassidy was among their group, and in a blatant attempt to impress Vanderveen, devoted what seemed like an inexhaustible supply of energy to helping the president over the rocky summit, for which the FSO was very grateful. Nankool never gave up, though, and never complained, as he forced his ungainly body to continue the struggle. Others were less resolute, however, and at least two dozen of them fell by the wayside. Some were simply in need of a rest, but others were too exhausted to go on, and simply collapsed. Because the Ramanthian guards were not only in good shape themselves but members of a jungle-evolved species, they had no patience with what they perceived as slackers. So when troopers came across a prisoner lying next to the trail, the fi?rst thing they did was to kick the unfortunate individual and order them to stand. Those who managed to obey were allowed to live. Those who couldn’t get up were executed. Some of them willingly, glad to end the torture, even if that meant death.

  The general effect of the gunshots was to send a shiver of fear along the entire length of the column. But that didn’t stop the fi?rst prisoners to come upon the scene from scavenging the dead person’s pack, clothing, and boots. Because on Jericho, survival took priority over squeamishness. Meanwhile, back at the tail end of the column, where a half dozen prisoners stumbled along under the combined weight of Tragg’s food, shelter, and other equipment, the overseer welcomed the summary executions, knowing it was all part of a logical process. After all, the mercenary reasoned, those who were weak would die anyway, so the sooner the better. Because that was the way of things on any planet—and would make the overall group stronger. But nothing lasts forever, so what had been a climb was transformed into a rapid descent as the head of the column snaked up over the rocky ridge and started down the other side. A moment that came as a considerable relief to Nankool, who was happy to let Jericho’s gravity do some of the work, as he skidded down a scree-covered slope.

  From there the prisoners made their way down through an ancient rockslide, reentered the triple-canopy forest, and followed the trail along the side of a hill. Vanderveen thought things were going to get better at that point but soon learned how wrong she could be as the vegetation began to change and the ground softened. The sun was hanging low in the western sky by the time the diplomat was forced to wade out into the murky waters of a swamp. As the cold water closed around her legs, Vanderveen wondered if the column would be able to reach solid ground before darkness settled in around them.

  An hour later the answer was clear as the red monitor led the prisoners out of a forest of frothy celery-like trees and into shallow water. The sky had turned a light shade of lavender by then, and stars had begun to appear, as the exhausted POWs followed a line of vertical poles out toward the low-lying island at the center of the lake. “Look!”

  Hooks said as he splashed through the water at Vanderveen’s side. “I see ruins.”

  The diplomat knew there were forerunner ruins on Jericho, lots of them, so she wasn’t surprised as the bottom shelved upwards, and their boots found fi?rm footing. So fi?rm it was quite possible that they were walking on a submerged road.

  Nankool was exhausted by the time he arrived on dry land, but rather than co
llapse when a guard announced that the prisoners would be staying the night, he took charge instead. “We need fi?rewood,” the chief executive announced fi?rmly. “Enough to fuel at least six fi?res. We had a relatively easy time of it today,” the president added, “so the least we can do is have everything ready when the rest of the column arrives. Secretary Hooks, please fi?nd Commander Schell and tell him to come see me. The people who led today should follow tomorrow.

  “FSO Vanderveen,” Nankool continued, “fi?nd the doctors. Tell them to open a clinic. I hope they know some83

  thing about feet—because they’re going to see a lot of them. Once that’s accomplished, we’ll need some latrines. And pass the word for people to boil the lake water before they drink it. Lord knows what sort of bugs are swimming around in that stuff.”

  Vanderveen fi?gured that few if any of the local microorganisms would be able to exploit alien life-forms on such short biological notice, but it made sense to be careful, so she nodded.

  By the time darkness fell, fi?res illuminated parts of the mysterious half-buried building, and most of the prisoners were clustered around what little bit of warmth there was. Meanwhile, the night creatures had begun to grunt, hoot, and gibber out in the swamp. And just in case the night sounds weren’t suffi?cient to intimidate any would-be escapees, Tragg’s monitors fl?oated through the ruins like silvery ghosts, bathing everything below in the harsh glare of their fl?oodlights. The overseer was camped on a smaller island, where his robots could better protect him, but it soon became apparent that the mercenary could see what the monitors saw. Because as the airborne machines continued to patrol the area, the overseer made occasional comments intended to let the POWs know how omniscient he was.