When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  Bester eyed the six pintle-mounted machine guns trained on the fl?oor below and confi?rmed that all of them were properly manned before speaking into a wireless microphone.

  “Atten-hut!” The process of coming to attention took at least fi?ve seconds and could only be described as sloppy. But that was to be expected, and Bester was reasonably happy with the extent of their compliance as he eyed the inmates below. “The man standing next to me is Captain Antonio Santana. You will listen to what he says and keep your mouths shut until he is done. Is that understood?”

  The response was automatic and something less than enthusiastic. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  Like the guards, Bester didn’t rate the honorifi?c “sir,” outside of the pit, but he was god within it. “I can’t hear you!”

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” the crowd roared.

  “That’s better,” the blocky noncom allowed grudgingly. “Because even though you might be scum, you’re Legion scum, and therefore the best goddamned scum in the galaxy!”

  Surprisingly, in spite of the fact that every single one of the people in the pit had been sentenced to prison by the organization to which they belonged, such was their overriding sense of pride that the response caused the railing under Santana’s right hand to vibrate. “Camerone!”

  It was amazing that an ancient battle in a small Mexican village could still evoke such passion. But it did, and Santana was moved by the strength of the response. Moved, and to some extent reassured, by the knowledge that the Legion had always been a refuge for criminals, who often fought valiantly in spite of their sordid backgrounds. Bester turned to Santana, assumed a brace, and saluted.

  “They’re all yours, sir.”

  The legionnaire nodded gravely and returned the salute.

  “Thank you, Command Sergeant Major.”

  Santana raised his own microphone as he turned back toward the pit. “Stand easy. . . . I know you have important things to do—so I’ll keep this session short.”

  That comment produced snorts of derision, some catcalls, and outright laughter from the assemblage below. Santana’s eyes roamed the crowd as he waited for the noise to die down. Most of the inmates were bio bods, but scattered here and there among the beings who looked back up at him were the bland metal faces that belonged to the cyborgs. Twicecondemned creatures with nowhere left to run. “I’m here because I need to recruit some legionnaires for a very dangerous mission,” Santana said honestly. “I can’t divulge the exact nature of the mission, other than to say that it’s very important to the Confederacy, and the chances of success are slim. That’s the bad news,” Santana concluded. “The good news is that any legionnaires who volunteer, and are selected for the team, will be pardoned. Regardless of their crimes.”

  There was a stir followed by the rumble of conversation as the prisoners reacted to the offer. “As you were!” Bester ordered sternly, and targeting lasers swept back and forth across the formation. The talk died away.

  “But I won’t take just anybody,” Santana cautioned.

  “And there are only twenty-six slots. That means thirteen bio bods—and thirteen cyborgs. But if you want to see some action, and if you’re interested in the possibility of a pardon, then give your name to the guards. Interviews will begin later this afternoon. That will be all.”

  Bester said, “Atten-hut!” and there was a loud crash as the multitude came to attention. “Dismissed!”

  Orders were shouted, and bodies swirled, as segments of the inmate population were sent back to their cells. Bester turned to Santana. The noncom’s deeply seamed face bore a look of concern. “I don’t know what you’re up to, sir, but surely you can do better than this lot. . . . Whatever the mission is will be dangerous enough without having to watch your back all the time. Why half that bunch would slit your throat for the price of a beer!”

  “I hear you, Sergeant Major,” Santana replied. “But there’s no other choice. The interviews will begin at 1400

  hours assuming that we have some volunteers.”

  “Oh, you’ll have them,” the noncom allowed cynically.

  “The question is whether you’ll want them!”

  Maria Gomez had been laying on her rack, snatching some extra Z’s, when the order arrived. And now, as the noncom followed the shock-baton-toting guard through a maze of passageways into the heart of the infamous pit, the legionnaire wondered what the hell she was doing there. Having cleared the last checkpoint the soldier led Gomez out into the open area beyond. “The captain is in room two,” the private informed her, and pointed his club at a door on the other side of the hall.

  Gomez thanked the guard, straightened her uniform, and approached the open door. She knocked three times, took two steps forward, and snapped to attention. “Corporal Maria Gomez, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Santana looked up from the printouts laid out in front of him to the noncom who was framed by the doorway. The legionnaire’s face was expressionless, and she was staring at a point about six inches above his head. He could use Gomez, that was for sure, but would that be fair? Sergeant Major Bester felt sure that at least some of the pit rats would volunteer. And, given the long sentences that many of them faced, would consider themselves lucky to escape the pit, no matter how dangerous the mission might be.

  But, outside of a few run-ins with offi?cers, Gomez had a clean record. Should he accept the noncom if she volunteered? Or fi?nd a reason to disqualify the legionnaire because he liked her? And would that be wrong? Such were the questions that swirled through Santana’s mind as he said, “At ease, Corporal. Come in and take a load off. I have some interviews to conduct—but I wanted to speak with you fi?rst.”

  Gomez didn’t know what to think as she entered the room and took the seat opposite Santana. That was when she became fully aware of the pistol, the cyborg zapper, and the shock baton that were laid out next to the offi?cer’s right hand. An interesting array of tools for a man who was about to conduct interviews. “Okay,” Santana began,

  “here’s the deal.”

  Gomez listened attentively as the offi?cer glossed over what he described as “. . . a top secret mission,” emphasized how dangerous it would be, and told her about the need to recruit prisoners. The enterprise was clearly hopeless. As was the way she felt about the serious-looking offi?cer. But Santana was going to need someone to cover his six, so when he offered to fi?nd her a slot in another outfi?t, the noncom shook her head. “Thank you, sir, but no thanks. I like a good fi?ght, you know that. So I’ll go along for the ride.”

  Santana felt a surge of gratitude. Because he would have to sleep sometime, and without dependable noncoms to keep his team of cutthroats under control, he could wake up dead. He looked her in the eye. “You’re sure?”

  Gomez nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Then welcome to Task Force Zebra, Sergeant. I can use the help.”

  Gomez was visibly surprised. “Sergeant?”

  Santana nodded. “The team will be made up of two platoons—with two squads in each platoon. I’m putting you down to lead the fi?rst squad in the fi?rst platoon. Have you got any objections?”

  It was a signifi?cant increase in responsibility, and to the noncom’s surprise, she welcomed it. “No, sir. No objections.”

  “Good. Come around and sit on this side of the table. I want you to take notes as I conduct the interviews. Then later, when the process is complete, I’m going to ask for your input. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Santana replied. “I know you’re going to like the fi?rst candidate. He’s an insubordinate son of a bitch who was sent to the pit for punching an offi?cer in the face.”

  It was dark when the forty-three heavily shackled prisoners were led up out of the pit to a landing platform, where they and the guards assigned to accompany them were loaded onto a couple of cybernetic fl?y-forms. Then, with a minimum of fuss, both aircraft lifted. According to their fl?ight plans, both cyborgs were taking part in a special o
ps training exercise. Which, all things considered, they were. Because, after two days of intensive interviews, the fi?rst part of the recruiting process was over. Now all Santana had to do was sort the wheat from the chaff. Assuming there was wheat hidden in the chaff.

  The fl?ight lasted for about an hour and ended when the fl?y-forms put down in an abandoned village. The sun was up but wouldn’t be for very long. Like many indigenous habitations, the village had been left to melt back into the countryside as the Naa who lived in it left to seek better lives in the city that was growing up around the fort. It was just one of many changes brought on by the war, the fact that the government had been relocated to Algeron, and Naa independence.

  Once the prisoners and their guards were on the ground, repellers screamed and the fl?y-forms lifted off. Santana waited for the sound of the engines to die away before addressing the mob arrayed in front of him. The cyborgs had been slotted into unarmed T-2 bodies that towered above the bio bods.

  “Welcome to Camp Bust Ass,” the offi?cer shouted, as the easterly wind tried to steal his words. “Congratulations on making the fi?rst cut. But since we have fi?fty volunteers, and only twenty-six slots, more than half of you will go back to the pit. So if you want to stay—show us what you can do. And I say ‘us,’ because Sergeants Norly Snyder and Pia Fox have joined the leadership team.”

  There were about twenty mounds, each signifying the location of an underground dwelling, and the prisoners whirled as two fully armed T-2s burst out into the open. A potent combination indeed, and a not-so-subtle message to any prisoner, or prisoners, who thought they might be able to overpower Santana and Gomez. “Sergeant Snyder served with me during the Claw uprising on LaNor,” the offi?cer continued. “And Sergeant Fox was part of the team that rescued the colonists on Hibo IV. So both of them know a thing or two about combat. You will follow their orders as you would follow mine.”

  The wind made a soft whining sound as it searched the village, found nothing of interest, and continued on its way. “Okay,” Santana said, as he eyed the faces arrayed in front of him. “Beautiful though it is—there’s an obvious shortage of amenities here at Camp Bust Ass. Conveniences like latrines, weatherproof huts, and a fi?rst-class obstacle course. Items that you will be privileged to dig, repair, and build, using supplies brought in yesterday. The noncoms will divide you into teams. Each team will have a goal, and each team member will have an opportunity to lead as well as follow. Those individuals who have the highest grades will get the opportunity to die glorious deaths. . . . And, all things considered, what more could any legionnaire want?”

  “Beer!” someone shouted, and Santana grinned. “Only winners get to drink beer. So, prove yourselves worthy, and it will be on me!”

  There was a loud cheer, followed by a volley of orders, and work got under way.

  A long series of extremely short Algeron days passed as the village was gradually transformed from a collection of abandoned hovels into something that resembled a military encampment, complete with its own subterranean chow hall, underground barracks, and an extensive obstacle course.

  But the process wasn’t pretty. Santana was forced to bring one belligerent T-2 to her knees with a zapper, three bio bods were shot while trying to escape, and Gomez beat a fourth senseless when he made a grab for her. And there were less-dramatic washouts as well: soldiers who refused to work with people they didn’t like, attempted to shirk their duties, or refused to obey orders. Every twelve hours the latest group of drops, plus an appropriate number of guards, were shipped back to Fort Camerone, where they were isolated from the rest of the prisoners so that word of what was taking place wouldn’t reach Jakov. Finally, once the original group had been winnowed down to the fi?nal twenty-four, Santana was ready to begin the next phase of training. But fi?rst, before additional gear was distributed, an evening of celebration was in order. It arrived in the form of two fl?y-forms. One was loaded with weapons, ammo, and other equipment. The other carried a keg of beer, two D-4020 Dream Machines that the borgs could hook up to, and hot meals straight out of Fort Camerone’s kitchens.

  And, as Santana watched, two offi?cers jumped down off the second fl?y-form and made their way over. Santana saluted General Bill Booly, who introduced First Lieutenant Alan Farnsworth, a man who was clearly too old for his rank. “The lieutenant just graduated from OCS (Offi?cer Training School),” Booly shouted over the engine noise. “But don’t let that fool you because he put in twelve years as a noncom before that! You need a platoon leader, and here he is. I would trust him with my life.”

  The comment implied a previous relationship, and some level of sponsorship as well, which was all right with Santana so long as Farnsworth could deliver the goods. And, as the two men shook hands, the offi?cer liked what he saw. Farnsworth’s face was a road map of sun-etched lines, his nose had clearly been broken more than once, and half of his left ear was missing. But the most important thing was the intelligence resident in the other man’s gray eyes as he waited to see how his new CO would react.

  “Welcome to Team Zebra,” Santana said warmly. “I can sure as hell use someone with your experience. . . . And, if I trip over a rock, the team will be in good hands.”

  Farnsworth grinned and seemed to relax slightly, as if he’d been unsure of how the academy graduate might react to getting saddled with a prior. “Thank you, sir. . . . I’m looking forward to the opportunity. Sort of.”

  All of three of them laughed as the fl?y-forms lifted off, snowfl?akes swirled, and darkness closed around them. PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  The rain began during the hours of darkness, continued as the dimly seen sun rose somewhere beyond the thick overcast, and turned the entire area around Camp Enterprise into a morass of thick, glutinous mud. The muck was so thick it formed clumps around the prisoners’ boots and forced them to lift a couple of extra pounds each time they took a step. The result was a slow-motion parody of work that was unlikely to produce anything more than sick POWs, which would threaten Tragg’s ability to stay on schedule, make money, and get off Jericho. That was why the overseer felt compelled to make the pilgrimage to the headquarters building, where the mercenary requested an audience with the commandant and was eventually shown into the richly decorated throne room. But only after removing his boots, washing both his hands and feet, and submitting to a pat-down. Then, careful to bow his head submissively, the overseer made his request. “Given the weather conditions, Excellency, and all of the mud, I recommend that we suspend operations until the rain stops.”

  The position of Mutuu’s antennae signaled contempt.

  “So it’s raining,” the commandant replied scornfully. “Animals need rain! It keeps them clean. We have a schedule to maintain, human. So maintain it. Or, would you like to join the rest of your cowardly kind, as they live out their lives in the jungle?”

  Tragg had been forced to leave his weapons at the front door, but it would have been easy to kill the commandant bare-handed, and the thought was very much on the overseer’s mind as the dark goggles came up. But the War Mutuu was waiting with sword drawn. “Yes, human?” the alien grated. “Is this your day to die?”

  So Tragg was forced to withdraw, and to do so without honor, which made him very angry. Because different though they were in most respects, the human and the War Mutuu had one thing in common, and that was their overweening pride.

  The result was a silent fury that was visited upon the prisoners in the form of orders to draw their tools, march to the edge of the jungle, and resume the task of clearing more land for the airstrip. Meanwhile, on the other side of the electrifi?ed fence, Vanderveen could see a band of ragged civilians who were busy excavating one of the structures that the forerunners had left behind. The activity didn’t make sense until Commander Schell pointed out that the ancient building would make an excellent anchor for the space elevator’s cable. Never mind the fact that doing so might compromise or destroy what could be an extremely important archeological
site. The Ramanthians had fi?ve billion new citizens to accommodate, and their needs had priority.

  The all-pervasive mud sucked at the soles of Vanderveen’s boots as the diplomat made her way over to the point where a team of “mules” were hauling loose debris out of the cutting zone and into the middle of the clearing. That was where Calisco was, so that was where Vanderveen wanted to be, since the FSO was determined to keep an eye on the shifty bastard. There were no objections as the diplomat grabbed on to a length of slippery rope and added her strength to that of the prisoners attempting to drag a heavily loaded sled across the water-soaked ground. Calisco was pulling on the other length of rope, just six feet away from her, and as Vanderveen struggled to make some forward progress she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Was the offi?cial slacking? Just pretending to pull? It was diffi?cult to tell, but yes, the diplomat thought that he was. Still, who didn’t ease off at one time or another, especially if they were feeling ill?

  Tragg was nowhere to be seen as the day progressed, but didn’t need to be, since he could not only watch the work via the robotic monitors but comment on it as well. Which he did frequently. The clouds parted around midday, and the rain stopped.

  A thick, undulating mist hung over the muddy fi?eld as Oliver Batkin watched the prisoners leave the work site to collect their ration of gruel. The spy had stationed himself high in a tree and had been there for some time. The cyborg was well aware of the space elevator by that point, having listened in on various conversations that pertained to it, and knew that the project was worth reporting to Algeron. Especially if the government was going to send a rescue mission. Unless neither one of his message torps had arrived that is. . . . Which was why the third vehicle would carry both the information sent earlier and everything he had been able to learn about the space elevator. But before the message went out Batkin was determined to go for a bonus. Tragg had been interviewing fi?ve to ten prisoners per night. . . . The question was why?