When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Having freed the village of Deepwell from Throatcut’s bandits, and with all the necessary permissions in place, Santana was eager to load Team Zebra onto a shuttle and get under way. But any hopes of a speedy departure soon began to fade as a host of last-minute activities conspired to suck time out of the schedule. Before the team could depart the offi?cer had to bring new members up from the pit, take delivery on new war forms, and account for T-2s lost in battle. A time-consuming affair that required the legionnaire to fi?ll out forms and argue with obstinate supply offi?cers. But by working both himself and his direct reports day and night, Santana was able to cut what might have been a week’s work down to a mere three days. As the parka-clad offi?cer watched the fi?nal load of supplies trundle up a metal ramp into the shuttle’s brightly lit hold, a personnel hatch swung open, and General Bill Booly stepped out onto the icy steel. Santana tossed the senior offi?cer a salute, and Booly returned the gesture. His breath fogged the air when he spoke. “You and your team did a good job in Deepwell. Congratulations.”

  Though seemingly genuine, the smile on Booly’s lips didn’t match the look in his eyes, a fact that made Santana uneasy. “Thank you, sir. . . . But Jericho will be more diffi?cult.”

  “Yes,” Booly agreed soberly. “It will. . . . Listen, Captain, I’m sorry to spring this on you at the last minute, but I was forced to accept a compromise in order to keep the mission on schedule.”

  Santana swallowed. “A compromise, sir? What sort of compromise?”

  “A staffi?ng compromise,” Booly answered darkly. “Apparently Jakov, or one of his toadies, decided that it would be nice if the offi?cer in command of the mission has political ties to the vice president. Something you lack.”

  Santana began to speak, but Booly held up a hand. “Believe me, I’m sorry, and if it were possible to intervene, I would. The people who backed this mission from the beginning might be able to force the issue, but that would take time, and time is something we don’t have. The decision to attack Deepwell made sense and will no doubt pay off in the end, but further delay is out of the question.”

  Santana remembered the photos of Vanderveen being marched through the jungle and nodded. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Besides,” the other offi?cer continued fatalistically, “be it right or wrong, the fact is that we went around the vice president on this, and it’s payback time. It isn’t pretty—

  but that’s how the process works. Fortunately, the man Jakov has in mind looks like a good candidate. His name is Major Hal DeCosta, and although I don’t know him personally, he has a good record. DeCosta doesn’t have any cavalry experience, I’m afraid, but he’s known for his nononsense style of leadership and at least one member of my staff swears by him. You’ll serve as Executive Offi?cer. . . . Everything else will remain the same. Questions?”

  Santana had questions. . . . Lots of them. Especially where the new CO’s lack of cavalry experience was concerned—but knew the general wouldn’t be able to answer them. He shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Booly nodded understandingly. “I know there are all sorts of things that the major will have to come to grips with before he can take over. But I’m counting on both you and Farnsworth to bring him up to speed during the trip out. He’ll arrive in the next fi?fteen minutes or so—

  but I wanted you to hear the news from me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Santana said sincerely. “I appreciate that.”

  “It was the least I could do,” Booly allowed, as he extended his hand. The grip was warm and fi?rm. “Thank you, Captain, and good luck. Our prayers will be with you.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” the general said, as if by way of an afterthought. “I know you’re busy, but a member of President Nankool’s staff is here to see you off, and I would appreciate it if you could spend a couple of minutes with him.”

  Booly turned back toward the personnel hatch, and there, standing in a cone of soft buttery light, stood Charles Winther Vanderveen. He was a tall, patrician-looking man, with thick gray hair and eyes the same color as his daughter’s. He was stationed on Algeron and had been ever since the government moved there. And, having completed his business on Earth, the diplomat had returned only to discover that the man he reported to had been captured by the Ramanthians.

  The general saw the look of recognition on Santana’s face, and wondered what, if anything, the two men had in common. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Captain,” Booly said. “Kill some bugs for me.”

  The offi?cers exchanged salutes, and Booly nodded to Vanderveen as he reentered the fortress. Snow crunched under his shoes as the diplomat came out to greet Santana.

  “Tony, it’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, sir,” the offi?cer replied, as they shook hands.

  “I heard about DeCosta,” Vanderveen said angrily. “I’m not supposed to take sides—but I can’t help it. The vice president is an idiot.”

  Santana grinned broadly. “If you say so, sir.”

  “I do,” the other man said fervently. “And I’m not alone. . . . But you know that.”

  There was a moment of silence as their eyes met, then drifted away. The diplomat spoke fi?rst. His pain was clear to see. “Christine is on Jericho you know.”

  Santana nodded. “Yes, sir. I know.”

  Vanderveen searched the younger man’s face. “And that’s why you agreed to go?”

  “Partly, yes.”

  Vanderveen swallowed. “The mission isn’t very likely to succeed, is it?”

  “No,” Santana replied soberly. “It isn’t.”

  “Still, there’s a chance,” Vanderveen said hopefully.

  “Margaret and I will cling to that hope for as long as we can. But whatever happens, no matter which way it goes, we’ll never forget what you did.”

  Or tried to do, Santana thought to himself. What was Christine’s father telling him? That her family would grieve if he died? And accept him if he didn’t? It seemed that way. “Thank you, sir. And please give my best to Margaret. And remind her that Christine is tough. . . . If anyone can survive on Jericho, she will.”

  There was a stir as the personnel door opened and a small wiry-looking major stepped out onto the steel platform closely followed by a sturdy-looking civilian. The offi?cer wore jungle kit while his companion was nearly invisible inside a parka. Because Santana and Vanderveen were standing off to one side of the platform, they went unnoticed as the newly arrived legionnaire paused to sniff the cold air. “I like this planet, I really do,” the offi?cer announced to no one in particular. “But then I love all the Lord’s creations. Except for the Ramanthians that is—

  because they chose to align themselves with the devil. Well, enough jibber-jabber. Come, Watkins. . . . It’s time to inspect my fl?ock.” And with that, both men made their way up the ramp.

  Santana watched the pair disappear with an expression of astonishment on his face. “Who the hell was that?”

  “That,” Vanderveen replied disgustedly, “was Major Hal ‘The Preacher’ DeCosta. Plus a civilian media specialist assigned to the mission by Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot. It seems the vice president wants a full multimedia record of your mission.”

  “But why?” Santana wondered out loud.

  “I don’t know,” the diplomat admitted. “But remember this. Watkins may look harmless, but he’s a specially equipped cyborg, and a lot tougher than he appears to be. All of his news-gathering equipment is built into his body. So be careful what you do or say when he’s around.”

  Santana nodded gratefully. “Thanks for the heads-up, sir. I will defi?nitely keep that in mind.”

  “And one other thing,” Vanderveen said soberly, as the wind ruffl?ed his hair. “Good luck.”

  PLANET HIVE, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Slowly, reverently, the Egg Orno took one last tour of her home. Looking, touching, and feeling each object so as to lock all of the sensations
deep within, where they would forever be safe. Because fi?nally, after weeks of careful planning, the fateful day had arrived. The process had begun with a pincer-written note from her mate that arrived on Hive sealed in a diplomatic pouch. Once on the planet’s surface the message had been delivered by a fur-covered being, who, in addition to his responsibilities as a chauffeur, was also a member of the Thraki intelligence service. The very sight of Alway Orno’s cramped writing had been suffi?cient to lift the Egg Orno’s spirits, but it was what the letter said that fi?lled her heart with joy. “I am alive, my dearest,” the letter began. “Sustained only by my love for you. . . . Memorize what follows, burn this letter, and fl?y to my arms. There is no need to fear because our fi?nancial well-being is assured.”

  The rest of the letter had been dedicated to an exacting set of instructions by which the Egg Orno would be able to allay suspicions, escape from Hive without being intercepted by the government, and join her mate on Starfall. And the matron was in the process of following those instructions as she completed the tour of what had been her home. It pained the Egg Orno to leave all of her personal things behind. But the sacrifi?ce was necessary if she was to escape—and material possessions were nothing when compared to being with her mate.

  The deception had begun when her remaining servant had been given the day off. It was something the aristocrat had been forced to do more and more of lately as the last of her funds trickled away. Now, with no one present to witness the extent to which the Egg Orno was willing to shame herself, it was time to leave. Not via the front door, as she had thousands of times before, but through the nameless portal that no self-respecting member of her class would mention much less use. Because it was through that narrow opening that urns containing the family’s waste products were passed each morning, so members of the lowly Skrum clan could carry them away, as was their birthright. And it was a good system, because rather than waste the night soil as so many societies did, the nutrientrich waste matter was loaded onto trains and taken to the habitat’s extensive subsurface gardens.

  There were surface farms of course, which provided for the majority of the planet’s dietary requirements, but the underground gardens continued to be important. Especially given the population explosion now under way. All of which accounted for the dark, dingy cloak that the Egg Orno pulled over herself, prior to securing a grip on a single bag. After that it was a simple matter to follow a ramp down into the servants’ quarters and open the small door located toward the rear of the dwelling. A puff of incoming air brought the pungent odor of feces with it. The Ramanthian’s olfactory antennae began to writhe, and the aristocrat’s breakfast threatened to rise as she forced herself to step through the opening into her own version of hell. A dark, shadowy place, where thousands of Skrum untouchables collected, processed, and distributed the fi?lth generated by their social betters. But once the door closed behind the Egg Orno it locked, which meant there was no going back. So, nauseated though she was, the Ramanthian had no choice but to pull the tattered cloak about her and follow a narrow ramp to the passageway below. There weren’t very many lights, nor were they required, since the untouchables had far better night vision than the upper classes did. However, thanks to what few glow cones there were, and the map the female had downloaded three days earlier, she was able to fi?nd her way. The paved sidewalk that the Egg Orno was on paralleled the train tracks one level below and continually split into narrow paths that led up to the domiciles and businesses above. She noticed that the specially designed wheelbarrows rattled as the untouchables pushed them uphill but were generally silent as they were brought back down, prior to being emptied into one of the open cars on the tracks below. By timing her movements carefully, the matron was able to avoid physical contact with the Skrum who passed to both sides of her. For to do so would be equivalent to touching what they touched, a possibility that fi?lled her with horror.

  It was warm under the city, way too humid for comfort, and noisome as electric-powered trains rattled past. The incessant rattle of click-speech could be heard as the untouchables spoke to each other in their own semiliterate dialect. About her? Yes, the aristocrat thought so, because as she followed the main passageway south, the Egg Orno felt sure that her social inferiors had seen through her disguise to the being within. But there was no way to know if that was actually true as the matron made a sharp turn to the right, counted off a series of narrow access ways, and followed the fourth up toward the city above. Once she arrived at the door, the Egg Orno knocked three times. There was no response. So she tried again, and again, until the door fi?nally swung open. A low-level functionary motioned for her to enter. If the male was surprised to see a visitor emerge from the city’s depths, there was no sign of it as he led her up a ramp into what appeared to be a warehouse. Utility lights threw a harsh glare down onto the polished fl?oor, brightly colored cargo containers had been stacked along one of the walls, and a loader was parked off to one side. There were no workers to be seen, as the aristocrat followed her guide across a large open space.

  Though never privy to the details, the Egg Orno had always been aware that there was a dark side to her surviving mate’s activities, as was to be expected of any functionary who rose to high offi?ce. Still, she was impressed by the extent to which Alway could infl?uence events on Hive, as her guide stopped in front of an open shipping container. A well-padded nest had been created within, complete with a cell-powered light, and what looked like a cooler. “The module has its own oxygen supply,” the functionary explained earnestly. “And will be fully pressurized during the journey into orbit. You’ll fi?nd both food and water inside the cooler. The trip will last about twelve hours. Once aboard the Thraki vessel, you will be released. So now, if you would be so kind as to enter, I will seal you in.”

  The Egg Orno entered the module, took the only seat available, and strapped herself in. The functionary wished her “a safe journey,” closed the door, and locked it. The fear the female felt as she eyed the dimly lit walls around her was mixed with excitement and a sense of anticipation. Because Alway was waiting, and every fi?ber of her being yearned to be with him.

  Fifteen long minutes passed before some muffl?ed sounds were heard, the cargo container shook as a pair of metal forks slid beneath it, and the entire box was plucked off the warehouse fl?oor. And it was then, as the module was being transferred to a truck, that Chief Chancellor Itnor Ubatha shuffl?ed out onto the warehouse fl?oor. The head of the Queen’s Intelligence Services appeared to join him. Because, rather than alienate someone with that much power, Ubatha had chosen to partner with the other offi?cial instead. That would mean less credit if their scheme proved successful but less blame if it didn’t. Not to mention the beginning of what could be a profi?table alliance. “Well, there she goes,” Ubatha observed. “I trust your people are ready?”

  “Very much so,” came the confi?dent reply. “My operatives will follow the Egg Orno every step of the way.”

  “It should be quite a reunion,” Ubatha commented, as he imagined the moment when the Ornos met.

  “It certainly will be,” the intelligence chief agreed.

  “Once the Egg Orno draws the ex-ambassador out of hiding, the hunt will end.”

  “Her highness will be pleased,” Ubatha said, as a big door rattled open and the truck passed through it.

  “A most pleasant prospect indeed,” the other offi?cial agreed. “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

  “Why yes,” Ubatha replied contentedly. “I believe I would.”

  ABOARD THE BARF BUCKET, IN ORBIT AROUND THE PLANET JERICHO,THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Thousands of pieces of debris orbited Jericho, most of which were left over from battles fought back during the Hudathan wars, or had been jettisoned by vessels like those presently in orbit. The menagerie included fi?ve Thraki freighters, two Ramanthian destroyers, the massive Imperator, and four tugs brought in to serve her exacting needs. One of the tugs was currently outbound to the CE, o
r cable end. If that particular vessel had a name, none of the POWs knew what it was, which was why they called the ugly vehicle the Barf Bucket, in honor of the effect weightlessness had on some of them. Not all of them, though, since most of the naval personnel were used to zero-gee conditions.

  Unfortunately, Vanderveen, wasn’t very experienced in spite of the fact that Lieutenant Mary Trevane probably had been. So there was nothing the diplomat could do except ignore her rebellious stomach in hopes that she could complete the coming evolution without barfi?ng in her helmet. A catastrophe that would not only force her to complete the mission with big globules of foul-smelling vomit free-fl?oating all around her face—but would necessitate hours of painstaking cleanup back on the Imperator. Because while the techs were willing to repair the diplomat’s suit, they were not required to clean up after what the navy people heartlessly called a “chucker.” Meaning anyone stupid enough to hurl in their helmet. Knowing that, Vanderveen struggled to focus all of her attention on the big cable reels that occupied the otherwise-open space directly in front of her. Like its sister ships the tug’s U-shaped hull was built around a pressurized control room located at the center of the connecting bar. Powerful engines were mounted on each of two trailing pylons, both of which were capable of swiveling up, down, or sideways.

  The POWs were required to ride in specially equipped slots located along the inside surface of the pylons just forward of the engines. The location put the slaves in close proximity to the twin cable reels that sat side by side on an axle stretched between the pylons. From that position the spools looked huge—large enough to blot out most of the stars—which made sense given that each reel carried a tenmile-long section of cable. So, assuming that each team of POWs successfully “hung” two sections of fi?ber per trip, and each of the four available tugs completed eight missions per standard day, that meant the 23,560-mile-long elevator would be completed in approximately thirty-six days. Except that wasn’t going to happen, not if the prisoners could prevent it, which the LG was pretty sure they could. Various possibilities were currently under consideration, ranging from an attempt to hijack all four tugs to some sort of sabotage aboard the Imperator. But regardless of which method of sabotage they chose, the space elevator would be destroyed.