When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  Santana looked at Watkins. “Are you recording?”

  The civilian made a face. “I am.”

  “Good,” the cavalry offi?cer replied. “Save that stuff. . . . Assuming any of us survive, I look forward to playing that footage for General Booly.” And with that Santana turned to go.

  “Wait a sec,” the cyborg said. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I think I’ll move into the hold.”

  “No problem,” Santana answered. “You’ll be welcome there.”

  DeCosta fell to his knees after the heretics left and called upon God to strike the evil ones down. But if DeCosta’s God was listening, he, she, or it chose not to respond. THE THRAKI PLANET STARFALL (PREVIOUSLY ZYNIG-47) The alien sky was so dark that it was almost black. The rain fell in sheets, and rattled on the top of the chauffeurdriven car, as it carried ex-ambassador Alway Orno along a highway of fused glass toward the dimly seen high-rise spaceport in the distance. Lightning stabbed a nearby hilltop, as if probing the planet for weak spots, but the Ramanthian was happy. No, joyous, because within minutes, an hour at most, he and his sole-surviving mate would be reunited.

  Then he would take her home to the rental house in the country, a mostly comfortable place where she could rest while he went to Jericho. Yes, Mutuu could be and generally was a cantankerous old coot. But Orno remained confi?dent that he could successfully manipulate the deluded royal into slaughtering the POWs and for free, too! That would allow Orno to keep Mutuu’s share of the fee. Once that task was complete, it would be time to return to Starfall, take delivery on the second payment, and book passage on a Thraki liner. There were colonies of Ramanthian expatriates out on the rim—some of which were said to be quite pleasant. Places where the residents were much more interested in how much money one had than the vagaries of imperial politics.

  In fact, based on what he’d heard, some of the settlements had chosen democratic forms of government. Who knows? Orno thought to himself. Maybe I’ll run for offi?ce, use my experience to good effect, and wind up better off than I was!

  Such were the Ramanthian’s thoughts as the car was forced to pause at a rain-drenched checkpoint before being allowed to enter the spaceport.

  An air car hovered above, and a multiplicity of eyes watched as the limo snaked its way across the shiny black tarmac toward the hangar beyond. But Orno was oblivious to such matters because his thoughts were focused on the future and the good times that lay ahead.

  The nearly empty offi?ce was part of a hangar, and while a bit colder than the Egg Orno might have wished, a lot more private than the main terminal would have been. And the aristocrat took comfort from the fact that her long voyage through space was fi?nally at an end. As soon as the shuttle cleared Hive, and the cargo module had been transferred to the Thraki freighter, the Egg Orno had been released. But it wasn’t until the ship was in hyperspace, where the Queen couldn’t possibly touch her, that the aristocrat had been able to relax.

  What the Egg Orno didn’t realize, however, not at fi?rst anyway, was the fact that the merchant vessel was scheduled to make stops in two Ramanthian-held systems prior to the much-anticipated arrival off Starfall. Each stop raised the possibility that government agents would storm aboard and take her into custody. But they didn’t, and the freighter completed its journey without incident. And now, having been brought down to the surface of the planet, the Egg Orno was in an agony of suspense. Had her mate aged? Had she aged? Would they be happy? Could they be happy? Would she have servants? And what if she didn’t?

  All of those thoughts and many more swirled through the aristocrat’s mind as she stood in front of the Thrakisized window and stared out across the tarmac at the rainsmeared lights beyond. True happiness was impossible without the War Orno, but at least she still had one mate, and that gave her life purpose.

  That was when the door opened, the Egg Orno turned, and felt an explosion of warmth in her chest. Because there, coming through the entranceway, was her beloved Alway! And, judging from the fi?nery that he wore, things were going well indeed.

  The female hurried forward to stand inside the circle of intimacy where only mates could linger for more than a few seconds and allowed her antennae to absorb the wonderful cocktail of pheromones produced by her mate. And that’s where they were, wrapped in the chemical equivalent of an embrace, when two Ramanthian agents entered the room. They had been outside, waiting for Orno to enter, and water continued to drain off their poncho-style raincoats as they shuffl?ed into the room. Both held silenced pistols. Alway turned to confront the assassins, but it was too late. “So,” Ifna Bamik said contemptuously. “Look what crawled out from under a rock. . . . All that was required to catch this vermin was the right kind of bait.”

  Orno felt his heart sink as he stepped sideways to shield the Egg Orno’s body with his own. He should have known. It had been too easy to get his mate off Hive. The whole thing was part of a plot to lure him out of hiding so government agents could kill him! But what about the Egg Orno? Did the assassins have orders to terminate her, too? Or could he buy her life? Both of their lives? It was worth a try. “Please,” the ex-diplomat said imploringly.

  “Don’t fi?re until you hear what I have to say. . . . I have information, extremely valuable information, that pertains to Marcott Nankool.”

  The War Bamik had heard it all before. The extravagant lies, the heartfelt pleas, and the shameless attempts at bribery. Yet none of those strategies had been successful because he was just as much a soldier as anyone in uniform and a patriot besides. A patriot who was in love with the godlike power that went with his profession. “Stop that,”

  the assassin said disgustedly. “Don’t embarrass yourself. . . . Not after such a long and colorful career. Yes, it would have been nice to die while taking a nice warm sand bath, but very few of us are granted that privilege. You’ll be happy to hear that both of us are excellent shots—so the whole thing will be over before you know it.”

  “Kill me if you must,” Orno replied earnestly. “But spare my mate. Her only crime is loyalty to me. Besides, what I said was true, I really do have information about President Nankool. Information that would be extremely valuable to the Ramanthian government!”

  Bamik glanced at his partner. “Did you hear that, Nondo? Some people simply refuse to listen.” That was when the agent fi?red. There was a pop as the bullet entered the ex-diplomat’s chest, exited through his back, and struck the Egg Orno. Both collapsed without a sound and lay motionless in a steadily expanding pool of blood.

  “Nice work, boss,” Nondo said admiringly. “The idiot never saw it coming. . . . Not to mention the fact that you took care of both targets with one bullet!”

  Bamik looked down at the bodies and nodded. “We’re on a budget,” the assassin said coldly. “And bullets cost money.”

  Nondo thought that was funny, and was still clacking his left pincer in approval, as Bamik took a series of photos plus two tissue samples, all of which would be sent to Hive to prove that the hit had been completed. Then, having accomplished their mission, the agents left. But, unbeknownst to the assassins, one of their victims was still alive. PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  There was a solid thump as the shuttle’s skids touched the tarmac, followed by a steadily diminishing scream as the engines spooled down, and the troopers at the front of the cargo compartment rose and went to work. Because the POWs had been divided into multiple work groups Tragg was no longer able to oversee all of the prisoners personally. So to enhance security the slaves had been chained to their seats and couldn’t leave the spacecraft until released. A good fi?ve minutes passed before Vanderveen and her companions were freed, ordered to stand, and herded out into the bright sunshine.

  The sky, the humid air, and the feel of solid ground under the diplomat’s feet all came as something of a shock after weeks in orbit and made her head swim. There were gasps of astonishment as the POWs paused to look up at the long slivery thread that hung suspended above the
m. The origins of the space elevator were too high to be seen, and the cable end wasn’t low enough to touch the ground as yet, but the results of their efforts were plain to see. Like those around her, Vanderveen couldn’t help but feel a moment of pride as she looked up into the achingly blue sky, saw the crosshatched contrails created by the hardworking tugs, and knew that more sections of cable were being hung even as she watched. And soon, as more and more of the elevator became subject to Jericho’s gravity, both the POWs and the tugs would move down to the surface. It was a moment Vanderveen and the other members of the LG were looking forward to because Nankool was still in orbit, and it was diffi?cult to protect him there. The POWs might have gawked a bit longer had they been allowed to, but the Ramanthian everyone referred to as “gimpy” behind his back was in a hurry to get rid of his charges and eat dinner. “You move!” the guard insisted, as he jabbed a marine with his rifl?e. “Or I shoot you good!”

  So with the Ramanthian limping ahead, and more guards following along behind, the slaves made their way across the hot tarmac. Vanderveen noticed that a lot of things had changed during her absence. More shuttles were parked along the edge of the fi?eld. And in spite of the fact that the furballs claimed to be neutral, some of the ships belonged to the Thrakies.

  And given the number of spacecraft on the ground, it wasn’t surprising to see ragged looking POWs loading cargo modules onto a train of driverless fl?atbed carriers that whined loudly as they followed a lead unit off the apron and into the jungle.

  Farther out, beyond the airfi?eld’s perimeter, Vanderveen could see that the newly excavated forerunner ruins were being prepped to receive the cable end. Which, if the scuttlebutt was correct, was what she and her companions were slated to work on next.

  Tower-mounted automatic weapons tracked the prisoners as the gate swung open to admit them, and the line of emaciated scarecrows who sat with their backs resting on the wall of the so-called dispensary sent up a reedy cheer as their newly returned comrades entered the camp. But Vanderveen was saddened to see that very few of the patients were able to stand, much less come forward to greet their friends, as they might have four or fi?ve weeks earlier. And they were the healthier specimens, the ones judged fi?t to go outside, while those who were dying lay within. But other than the handful of people sitting outside the dispensary, the rest of the camp was practically deserted. Partly because the able-bodied personnel were outside the fence on work details, but also because hundreds of prisoners were still working in space, where they would remain until phase two began.

  So Vanderveen had every reason to expect that she and her comrades would immediately be put to work. And maybe they would have if Tragg had been present. But in the absence of orders from the Ramanthians, most of the POWs withdrew to the huts, where they took muchneeded naps. And the diplomat was no exception. Within moments of going facedown on a sour-smelling pallet, Vanderveen was unconscious, and remained that way, until a few hours later when the noise generated by the returning work crews woke her.

  Vanderveen was hungry by then, very hungry, and followed the others to the chow line where the so-called scoops were serving the same gray gruel they had been ladling out when she left. Except that after weeks of cold MSMREs eaten aboard the Imperator, the hot mush actually tasted good! A sad state of affairs indeed. There wasn’t enough of the brew, however, and Vanderveen was busy licking the bottom of her bowl, when Calisco plopped down next to her.

  Some people, no make that most people, had been systematically weakened since the surrender. But Calisco was a notable exception. Because by some form of alchemy the diplomat couldn’t quite fathom, the sly, often-leering sycophant she had known aboard the Gladiator had been transformed into a person Vanderveen could almost like. Because he was a man who had been through a terrible experience and somehow been purifi?ed by it. Even if Calisco still had a tendency to look at the FSO as if she were naked.

  Calisco had been on the ground while Vanderveen worked on the Imperator—so the next fi?fteen minutes were spent exchanging information until both were up-to-date.

  “So,” the bearded offi?cial concluded, having checked to ensure that no one was listening, “tonight’s the night.”

  Vanderveen raised an eyebrow. “Tonight’s the night for what?”

  “For Batkin,” Calisco said conspiratorially. “As luck would have it, Tragg left a navy robo tech here on the ground when he took the rest of you up into orbit. We scavenged bits of wire here and there and stole parts from incoming cargo modules. The tech took what we gave her, cobbled it all together, and got Batkin up and running again. He can fl?y!”

  “Damn!” Vanderveen enthused. “That’s wonderful. . . . Congratulations.”

  “Yes, it is good news isn’t it?” Calisco commented contentedly. “With Batkin on the other side of the fence, who knows what we can accomplish? But fi?rst we need to get him out of here, and that’s where the suicide comes in.”

  Vanderveen’s eyes widened. “Someone’s going to commit suicide?”

  Calisco nodded. “Yeah. . . . Petty Offi?cer Kirko is still up and around—but the doc says he has a terminal disease. So just after sundown, Kirko’s going to attack one of the guards at the east end of the camp. Then, while the Ramanthians are busy killing him, Batkin will cross the fence. Slick, huh?”

  The way Calisco explained it sounded so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion, that had someone from off-planet been able to hear the conversation, they might have concluded that the offi?cial with the bright eyes and the deeply tanned face was a cold-blooded monster.

  But Vanderveen knew better. The prisoners had to fi?ght with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on, and if that meant taking advantage of Kirko’s inevitable death, then so be it. Because if they could put Batkin on the other side of the electrifi?ed fence, where the cyborg would be free to roam, then an important battle would have been won. But there was a potential problem. A serious one.

  “What about reprisals?” the FSO wanted to know. Calisco shrugged. “We’re hoping there won’t be any. . . . Not if Kirko can get himself killed without harming one of the guards. But if there are reprisals, it will still be worth it.”

  Vanderveen looked away. “Is Batkin aware of all this?”

  Calisco shook his head. “Hell no. . . . He knows there’s going to be a diversion but nothing more.”

  The diplomat nodded understandingly. “That makes sense. He might refuse if he knew. So, what now?”

  “It’s time to say good-bye to Kirko,” the offi?cial announced solemnly. “And wish him God’s speed.”

  No matter how long she lived, Vanderveen knew she would never forget the on-again, off-again line of POWs that straggled through Kirko’s barracks. Each paused to offer the petty offi?cer a few words of prayer or a gruff joke as they said their good-byes.

  Vanderveen didn’t want to cry, promised herself that she wouldn’t cry, but the tears came anyway. Kirko was obviously in pain but managed a smile nonetheless and offered words of comfort. Which, coming from the man who was about to die, were backwards somehow. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Kirko said kindly. “I know my messmates are waiting for me—and they’ll show me the ropes.”

  By the time the good-byes were over, darkness was beginning to fall, and Batkin was nervous. And there was plenty to be nervous about since there hadn’t been any opportunity to test the makeshift repairs outside the four walls of the barracks. But the alternative, which was to hide under the fl?oorboards until his power ran out, wasn’t that attractive. Besides, the spy had a job to do, and remained determined to do it.

  So Batkin remained where he was, with two marines to keep him company, until a very brave petty offi?cer picked up a rock and threw it at one of the Ramanthian guards. The ensuing burst of gunfi?re, followed by the urgent bleat of a Klaxon, and a whole lot of yelling was Batkin’s cue to fi?re his repellers, ease his way out into the cool night air, and make straight for the fence.

  The spy waited for the cry of ala
rm, and another burst of gunfi?re, but nothing happened as he cleared the top of the electrifi?ed barrier and sped toward the jungle. The trees welcomed the cyborg back, the darkness took him in, and Batkin was free.

  12.

  There is no way to know what archeological treasures lie hidden beneath the surface of planets like Jericho—or what knowledge will be lost if the planet falls into the wrong hands.

  —Hibeth Norroki

  Turr academic

  Standard year 2743

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Within seconds of exiting hyperspace the Solar Eclipse was challenged by a Ramanthian traffi?c control offi?cer and two Sting Class patrol vessels were dispatched to intercept her. But thanks to information provided by agent Oliver Batkin, the ship’s Thraki pilots were not only familiar with in-system arrival protocols, they had the latest recognition codes as well—meaning anything less than six months old. That vulnerability would be eliminated once all ships were equipped with hypercom sets, but that day was off in the future.

  So that, plus the reassuring sight of some Thraki faces, put all Ramanthian fears to rest as the patrol boats turned away, and the Solar Eclipse entered orbit. Meanwhile, down in the main hold, twenty-one specially modifi?ed drop pods were loaded and ready to be ejected once the ship was in position. Sixteen of the capsules contained one cyborg and one bio bod each, plus a thousand pounds of food, ammo, and other gear required to support them on the ground. The remaining pods carried RAVs, each of which was loaded with additional supplies.

  The problem was that unlike military drop ships, which were equipped to jettison up to thirty-six pods at once, the Solar Eclipse didn’t have drop tubes, which meant that Thraki crew members would have to push Team Zebra’s containers off the stern ramp two at a time. And no matter how quickly the mercenaries completed the task, the pods were going to hit Jericho’s surface miles apart, thereby forcing the legionnaires to waste precious time coming back together. But there was no way around it, so as a team of four space-suited crew members waited to propel the pods down the roller-equipped ramp, the beings sealed inside the entry vehicles continued to communicate with each other on a low-power, short-range com channel. Each eggshaped container was pressurized and divided in half. That meant that as Santana stood on a compartment packed with supplies he was effectively face-to-face with his tenfoot-tall T-2, even though a well-padded partition served to separate them. The idea was to make sure that each twoperson fi?re team hit the dirt together, thereby enhancing their chances of survival as well as their ability to engage the enemy within minutes of touchdown.