When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  Santana took note of the fact that the noncom had chosen to spend the night with her back to a cliff and a good fi?eld of fi?re. The pits had been fi?lled in, however, and the barricade had been removed, which meant the fi?rst squad was ready to move. The platoon leader nodded approvingly. “Nice job, Sergeant. Any excitement last night?”

  But before Gomez could answer, DeCosta was on the team freq, his voice tight with anger. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . The clock is running! Or have you forgotten?

  Please bring your platoon forward as quickly as possible. Over and out.”

  It was the sort of thing that Gomez expected from offi?cers, and her anger was clear to see. She opened her mouth to speak, but Santana frowned and shook his head. Then, having made no response, he ordered Snyder forward. Meanwhile, as Santana took to the trail, the platoon seethed. None of the legionnaires approved of the way DeCosta was harassing the XO, and Hargo least of all. The serial murderer was still angry about the manner in which DeCosta had shelved him. “Who the hell does the little shit think he is?” the cyborg wanted to know. “One of these days I’m going to grab the bastard and twist his pointy head off!”

  “That will be enough of that,” Gomez said sternly.

  “Stow the bullshit, or I’ll put you on point for the next fi?ve days.”

  With the shrewdness of enlisted people everywhere, Hargo had taken advantage of the disagreement between Santana and DeCosta to keep the war paint on in spite of the major’s order to get rid of it. Which meant that, as the T-2’s big blocky head turned her way, Gomez found herself looking into a pair of bleeding eyes. Hargo was pissed, the noncom knew that, but couldn’t be allowed to run his mouth. Slowly, so as to emphasize what she was doing, the squad leader pulled the zapper out if its holster and held it up for him to see. “You want to dance, big boy?” she inquired. “If so, then bring it on!”

  There was a pause, followed by a synthesized rumble. “I got no beef with you, Sarge. You know that.”

  Gomez made the zapper disappear. “Yeah, I know that,”

  she replied casually. “I was checking, that’s all. Come on, you slackers. Let’s get our asses in gear before the major goes crazy on the captain again.”

  The next few hours were largely uneventful as Santana led his platoon north. The column bushwhacked where necessary, but followed game trails whenever possible, to save time. But the legionnaire knew there was something even more important than speed, and that was the need to maintain the element of surprise. Because the moment the Ramanthians became aware of the team, they would bring an overwhelming amount of fi?repower to bear, and the mission would be over. Worse yet, the bugs might fi?gure out what the legionnaires had been planning to do and identify Nankool.

  So when the fi?re team at the front of the column announced a clearing ahead, plus some sort of structure, the platoon leader was quick to order both squads off the trail. Once all of them were hidden, Santana directed Snyder to keep an eye on the back door while he followed Private Noaim Shootstraight forward. The brindled Naa was a crack shot, a skilled scout, and had been court-martialed for desertion. Not once but twice. However, in spite of the fact that there weren’t any jungles on Algeron, and the way his sweat-matted fur caused him to pant, the Naa seemed to slide between the leaves and branches as if raised on Jericho. Santana, by contrast, made twice as much noise, and was hard-pressed to keep up.

  Ten minutes later the twosome arrived at the edge of a blackened clearing that had obviously been created with energy weapons or something very similar. And there, sitting at the very center of the open space, was a cylindrical structure. The construct was about twenty feet tall, shaped like a grain silo, and had evenly spaced holes all around its circumference. Ramanthian script had been spray-painted onto whatever the object was along with a six-digit number. None of it made any sense to Santana—but was seemingly obvious to Shootstraight. “It looks like a feeder, sir,”

  the private whispered. “Like the ones we have for dooths back home.”

  What the Naa said made sense. But the Ramanthians didn’t have any dooths. Then the offi?cer had it. . . . The food was for their tricentennial nymphs! The same ones who were out hunting. He was about to say as much when DeCosta spoke in his ear. “Zebra Six to Alpha Six. . . . What are you waiting for? Get a move on. Over.”

  There were no Ramanthians in sight, young or old, which meant that the way was clear. Or that’s how it seemed. But the area around the silo was littered with the remains of dead animals. Bones mostly, since it looked as though scavengers had been at them, but some half-eaten corpses as well. Had foraging nymphs killed them? Or had the slaughter resulted from something else?

  “Answer me, damn it!” DeCosta demanded shrilly. “I know you can hear me!”

  DeCosta was distracting, so Santana killed the input, as he brought his binos up and inched them from left to right. There was nothing to see at fi?rst, other than corrugated metal, but then he spotted them. Half-hidden within the shadow cast by the feeder’s conical roof was an array of spotlights, vid cams, and some sort of weapons!

  Which made sense if the bugs wanted to observe what the nymphs were up to and keep indigenous animals from getting their food. The platoon leader reactivated his radio to discover that DeCosta was in mid-rant. “. . . or I will know the reason why! Over.”

  “This is Alpha Six,” Santana said softly. “We ran into a Ramanthian feeding station—complete with cameras and a computer-controlled weapons system. That means we’ve got to backtrack and go around it. Out.”

  Even DeCosta could understand that, so there was no reply, which the platoon leader chose to interpret as a win. But Hargo wasn’t so easily satisfi?ed. He took each of DeCosta’s diatribes personally—and continued to fume. Having backtracked more than a mile and successfully circled around the Ramanthian feeding station, the fi?rst platoon continued toward the north and a reunion with the rest of Team Zebra. The much-awaited linkup took place at about 1500 hours, which left them about fi?ve hours of daylight.

  DeCosta, who was clearly eager to get going, chose to position himself near the head of the column just behind the team on point. The decision spoke to his personal courage since both he and his T-2 would almost certainly be in the thick of things were the company to be ambushed. In the meantime Santana found himself in the drag position, which made tactical sense, but might be by way of a punishment as well. But whatever the reason for the assignment, the platoon leader took his duties seriously, which meant Snyder had to as well, even if that required extra effort. Because rather than simply walk backwards every once in a while, and scan the back trail with her sensors, the offi?cer ordered the T-2 to leave the trail periodically, hunker down, and wait to see if anyone was following. And not just following, but lagging so far back, as to initially fall outside of sensor range. Which seemed unlikely at best—and forced Snyder to jog in order to catch up with column.

  Consistent with Snyder’s expectations the fi?rst fi?ve attempts produced negative results. But then, just as the legionnaire was beginning to resent the process, something registered on the cyborg’s sensors. And not just one something, but a parade of heat signatures, all coming up the trail. The targets weren’t large enough to qualify as Ramanthian troopers, plus they had a tendency to advance in a series of fi?ts and starts, but the presence of so many unidentifi?ed life-forms was unsettling, nevertheless. Especially if the targets were Ramanthian nymphs. So Snyder told Santana, who ordered her back onto the trail, and relayed the information to DeCosta. And rather than pooh-pooh the report the way the platoon leader half expected him to, the major even went so far as to offer up a grudging, “Well done.” Followed by a brusque, “Keep an eye on the buggers.” Which Santana did.

  Darkness fell earlier on the forest fl?oor than up above the canopy. So, when the column came across some vinecovered ruins, DeCosta called a halt while there was still enough light to work by. Lieutenant Farnsworth’s platoon was ordered to establish a defensive perimeter around th
e stone structure. That left the fi?rst platoon to set up camp, which required them to clear obstructing vegetation, establish fi?ring positions, and seal off the steep stairwell that led underground.

  Santana monitored the work by walking around. He paused every now and then to offer words of encouragement, but generally let his noncoms make decisions, knowing it was important to build confi?dence in their leadership. Eventually the work was done. And just in time, too, as the sun sank in the west, and six small fi?res were lit inside the embrace of the ancient walls. They threw shadows onto the carefully fi?tted stones, but none were positioned to silhouette the legionnaires or reveal too much to prying eyes. DeCosta was sitting in a corner, reading a holy book by means of the lights built into his helmet, and Farnsworth had the fi?rst watch. That meant Santana had the small fi?re all to himself as he consumed his rations. “So,” a voice said, as servos whined. “We meet again.”

  The offi?cer turned to fi?nd that Watkins was standing next to him. Having been ejected from the ship immediately after DeCosta, the civilian and his T-2 landed within half a mile of the major, and had been with the offi?cer ever since. Santana gestured to the space next to him. “Pull up a chair. . . .”

  “I’m sorry about all of DeCosta’s bullshit,” the media specialist said, as he lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs. “You’ve been very patient.”

  Santana was surprised by both the tone of the comment and its source. “Really? No offense, sir. . . . But it was my impression that the two of you were pretty tight.”

  Even though his plastifl?esh face was less responsive to emotion than skin-covered muscle would have been—

  there was no denying the look of disgust on the cyborg’s face. “I can certainly understand how you came to that conclusion,” the civilian allowed. “But no, the truth is that I met DeCosta just two hours prior to boarding, and have come to like the man less with each passing day. His attitude toward cyborgs is nothing less than appalling.”

  Rather than agree with Watkins, which would have been disloyal, the cavalry offi?cer chose a less risky path as he bit into a fruit bar. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you come along?”

  Watkins smiled thinly. “Well, that depends on whom you ask. . . . Assistant Undersecretary Wilmot would tell you that I’m here to document the mission. Because if you and your legionnaires succeed, then she wants the credit to accrue to Jakov. And, if you fail, she wants evidence that an attempt was made.”

  The fruit bar was woefully dry, and Santana chased the fi?rst bite with a mouthful of water from his canteen before wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “No offense, sir. . . . But if we fail, the odds are that you’re going to wind up dead, along with the rest of us.”

  The cyborg chuckled. “That’s true. Which is why the Solar Eclipse dropped some message torps into orbit before she left. I upload everything I have twice a day. And if I fail to do so, the torps will return to Algeron on their own.”

  “So,” Santana said, as fl?ames began to lick around his empty MSMRE box. “That’s how the assistant undersecretary would account for your presence here. . . . But how would you explain it?”

  Watkins gave the offi?cer a sidelong look. “You don’t miss much, do you? No wonder General Booly chose you to command the mission. Well, as it happens, I do have a personal reason for coming along. One I hope you will keep to yourself.”

  Santana shrugged. “Sure. . . . So long as it won’t compromise the mission or endanger my troops.”

  “It won’t,” the cyborg assured him. “It’s a family matter actually. . . . One that goes back about fi?ve years. It all started when my sister Marci fell in love with a total bastard named Maximillian Tragg, then ran off with him. He was a Confederacy marshal back then—and charged with enforcing the law.

  “But, marshals don’t make much money,” Watkins continued harshly. “Or not enough to satisfy a man like Tragg. Especially given the fact that he liked to gamble. First he lost his money, then Marci’s, and fi?nally the house my parents gave them.

  “My sister begged him to quit,” the cyborg said wearily, “but he wouldn’t or couldn’t. So Marci went to work in an effort to make ends meet. Meanwhile, Tragg continued to gamble—and wound up owing a lot of money to the combine.

  “The mob was understanding, very understanding, so long as my brother-in-law was a marshal. That came to an end when he was arrested for a long list of crimes and placed in jail. But not for long because Marci put up the money required to bail him out in the naïve belief that he would change his ways.

  “Well, the combine came a-calling shortly after that,”

  Watkins added sadly. “Looking for the money Tragg owed them.”

  The civilian paused at that point, as if fi?nding it diffi?cult to continue, and Santana was about to break the conversation off when the other man raised a hand. “No, I want you to hear this. With no money to give them, and no badge to protect him, Tragg gave the mob the only asset he had left. My sister. Marci was pretty you see,”

  Watkins said bitterly, as he stared into the fi?re. “Very pretty. And there are people who will pay large sums of money to use, abuse, and destroy beautiful women.

  “So my brother-in-law listened to Marci’s screams as they took her away, packed a suitcase, and ran. I followed. It took six standard months, and all the money I had, but I found the bastard on Long Jump.”

  Watkins shook his head sorrowfully. “It was foolish, I know that now, but I wanted to kill Tragg with my own hands. However, I was a journalist, and he was an ex–law enforcement offi?cer, which put me at something of a disadvantage. All of which is a long-winded way of saying that Tragg won the fi?ght and left what remained of my body in an alley. Which, in case you wondered, is how I wound up as a cyborg.

  “But he didn’t escape untouched. . . . Oh, no he didn’t!”

  Watkins said with obvious satisfaction. “The fi?ght took place in the repair shop where he was working at the time. And having otherwise been disarmed, I grabbed a blowtorch. The fl?ames burned his face so deeply that no amount of reconstructive surgery is going to make the bastard look normal again. And that’s why I’m here,” the cyborg added, as he turned toward Santana. “Because Tragg’s face was among those that Oliver Batkin recorded and sent to Algeron. Except he isn’t one of the prisoners. He’s guarding them! For the bugs! If you can believe that. The fact that I was working for the government, and in a position to hear about the mission was providence, or random chance. It makes no difference.”

  Santana looked into the other man’s eyes. They weren’t real, not like fl?esh and blood, yet the pain was clear to see.

  “So, you came here to kill him?”

  “Exactly,” Watkins confi?rmed grimly. “Only this time I plan to do the job right.”

  “And your sister?”

  “Never heard from again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Santana responded sincerely. “I really am. But why tell me about all of this?”

  The cyborg looked down into the fi?re and back up again. “Because,” he said fi?nally, “none of us know how things will turn out. Maybe I’ll survive—and maybe I won’t. But if I die, and you make it through, promise me you’ll kill him.”

  It was a bizarre request, and all things considered, one that Santana knew he should refuse. But such was the other man’s passion, and the extent of his pain, that the offi?cer relented. “You have my word.”

  13.

  Blood is the price of victory.

  —Carl von Clausewitz

  On War

  Standard year 1832

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  It was raining, and had been on and off for two days, as a succession of weak storm fronts crossed over Camp Enterprise. President Marcott Nankool and FSO Christine Vanderveen sat side by side as they ate their noon meal and looked out over the muddy compound. “So,” the chief executive said listlessly, “what’s your guess as to what that thing is?”

  Vanderveen knew the �
��thing” Nankool referred to was the raised platform and thatched roof that was gradually taking shape under Tragg’s watchful eye. Because now that phase one of the space elevator project had been completed, the renegade was living dirtside again. Like everyone else in the camp, the diplomat had considered Nankool’s question before but had been unable to come up with a believable answer. Still, thinking about “the thing”

  was better than thinking about the metallic taste she couldn’t seem to get rid of, the persistent ringing in her ears, or the fact that she hadn’t had a period in more than a month. Symptoms that troubled her, but were nothing compared to what some of her fellow prisoners suffered, as a persistent lack of vitamin B caused their limbs to swell up. They were easy to spot because of the way they shuffl?ed along. Which, since it was similar to way the Ramanthians moved, had become known as “bug walking.” “It beats me,” Vanderveen answered fi?nally. “But whatever that thing is, I doubt we’re going to like it.”

  The words proved to be prophetic the next morning when the rain stopped, the sun reappeared, and Vanderveen left her barracks for breakfast. The monitor hummed ominously as it swept in to hover in front of her. The computergenerated voice was fl?at and infl?ectionless. “Are you prisoner Trevane?”

  The diplomat had been using the dead offi?cer’s name for so long by that time that she didn’t have to think before answering. “Yes, I am.”

  “Please follow me,” the robot said, as it turned and began to move away.

  Vanderveen frowned. “Please?” She couldn’t remember an occasion when the word had been spoken by either Tragg or one of his mechanical minions. A dozen POWs watched sympathetically as the young woman was forced to follow the monitor out toward the center of the gently steaming compound. Because they knew that attention, any kind of attention, was almost always bad. Meanwhile, Vanderveen felt something cold gather in the pit of her stomach as she was led toward the mysterious platform. It was fi?nished now, or that’s the way it appeared, and a table plus two chairs had been placed under the pitched roof. Maximillian Tragg was seated off to the right, and judging from the smirk on the mercenary’s badly scarred face, he was pleased with himself. “Come on up,” Tragg said conversationally, as the diplomat paused in front of a short fl?ight of stairs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”