When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  An invitation from Tragg was equivalent to an order—

  so the FSO had no choice but to make her way up onto the platform. Once there, Vanderveen realized that the table was covered with white linen and set with silver. If she hadn’t known better, the diplomat might have thought she was about to join her parents for a meal on the veranda.

  “Please,” Tragg said, as he gestured toward the empty chair. “Have a seat.”

  Since there hadn’t been any direct one-on-one contact with the overseer since the day Dent had been killed, Vanderveen assumed Tragg had lost interest in her. Now he was using the P-word and inviting her to sit down. There had to be a reason. . . . But what was it?

  “Please. . . .” Tragg reiterated. “Have a seat. Breakfast will be along in a moment.”

  So being unsure of what was taking place, and hoping to forestall one of the murderous episodes Tragg was famous for, Vanderveen sat down, an act witnessed by POWs far and wide. Many of whom continued to spoon their morning mush into their mouths as they watched the tableau unfold. “Good,” Tragg said approvingly, as Vanderveen took the chair across from him. “It’s been a while since that chunk of metal nearly took your head off. A lot has been accomplished since then.”

  That was true. Because by turning her head only slightly Vanderveen could see the lower end of the silvery comma that hung over the camp. “Yes,” she said levelly.

  “And a lot of people have died.”

  “That’s one of the things I like about you,” Tragg replied indulgently. “Besides your tits that is. You have the guts to speak your mind. Even if that is somewhat stupid at times.”

  The largely one-sided conversation was interrupted as a pair of heavily burdened POWs arrived carrying trays. Both were so starved they looked like walking skeletons as they placed heaping plates of hot food in front of the diners. The sight and smell of the feast caused Vanderveen’s stomach to growl. Even though she knew one of the men, he refused to meet her eyes.

  “There,” Tragg said, as the servers left. “All of it was frozen, I admit that, but it beats the hell out of the crap that you eat every morning! Dig in!”

  Vanderveen swallowed the fl?ood of saliva that had entered her mouth and kept her hands in her lap. “No.”

  One of Tragg’s nonexistent eyebrows rose a notch. “Why not?”

  “Forcing me to have breakfast with you is a trick,” the diplomat stated. “A device that’s intended to drive a wedge between me and the rest of the prisoners.”

  “That’s very astute,” Tragg observed. “But it’s more than that. Have you seen yourself lately? No, I don’t suppose you have. Take a look in the mirror.”

  For the fi?rst time Vanderveen realized that a small mirror lay on the table next to her place setting. Eating the food was wrong, but looking at herself in a mirror seemed harmless enough, so she did so. And what the diplomat saw came as a shock. Her previously blonde hair was almost white—having been bleached by weeks of tropical sun. Her eyes were still blue but stared back at her from cavernlike sockets.

  Tragg saw the horror in her eyes and nodded. “That’s right. You look like hell. Not quite as bad as I do, but close enough! Which brings me back to what I was saying before. Eat the food, drink the juice, and take the vitamins on your plate. You’ll feel better within a week. Especially since I plan to have you over for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then, in a month or so, you’ll be worth looking at again.”

  There was a clatter as the mirror fell, and Vanderveen stood. “No!” she said angrily. “I won’t do it!”

  “Oh, but I think you will,” Tragg responded grimly, as he reached for the rifl?e that was leaning against the rail.

  “Go ahead,” Vanderveen said defi?antly. “Shoot me! It’s what you wanted to do from the very start.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” the overseer replied dryly, as he worked a shell into the weapon’s chamber. At that point Tragg brought the long gun up in one swift motion, tucked the butt in against his shoulder, and selected a target. Vanderveen shouted, “No!” but the sound of her voice was lost in the fl?at crack of the rifl?e, and the echoes that followed. The bullet fl?ew straight and true, plucked a marine off his rag-wrapped feet, and dumped him on his face. Everyone saw it, and given the way Vanderveen was standing there, it looked as though she was spotting for Tragg. Even Nankool sat stunned as the diplomat took her seat at what was already rumored to be a feast.

  But, strangely enough, it was Calisco who came to Vanderveen’s defense. “I know what you’re thinking,” the skinny little offi?cial put in. “But that’s bullshit. She’s stronger than either one of us.” Nankool wanted to believe that, he really did, but found it diffi?cult to do. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  There were only two sentries posted outside of General Booly’s quarters, and because it was their job to protect the Military Chief of Staff from deranged soldiers and the possibility of Naa assassins, they had no reason to expect trouble from a squad of marines. Especially given the fact that the jarheads were not only under the command of a hardfaced captain, but marched up the corridor as if on parade and came to a crashing halt. The fact that one of the marines was armed with a sledgehammer should have triggered suspicions, but it wasn’t until the soldiers leveled their weapons at the legionnaires that the sentries understood the true nature of the situation.

  One of the legionnaires opened his mouth, as if to speak into his lip mike, and took a rifl?e butt to the head. A marine caught the unconscious body before it could hit the fl?oor. The second sentry surrendered his weapon without protest.

  Booly was asleep when the sledgehammer hit the front door and a resounding boom echoed through his dreams. But, having no reason to expect a break-in, it wasn’t until the third blow that the offi?cer sat up and started to turn toward the pistol on the nightstand. But it was too late because the marines had entered the apartment by then.

  “Drop it,” the marine offi?cer said, as Booly’s fi?ngers closed around the grip. “Or die in bed.”

  Booly took note of both the command and the offi?cer’s failure to use the honorifi?c “sir,” and knew what was taking place. Maylo was sitting up by then with a sheet clutched to her otherwise-naked breasts. “Bill? What’s going on?” Her voice was tight but level.

  “I think it’s called a coup d’etat,” the legionnaire replied, as he put the weapon down. “Isn’t that right, Captain?”

  But the marine wasn’t about to be drawn into a conversation. A corporal confi?scated the general’s weapon as the offi?cer pointed his pistol at Maylo. “Get up. . . . And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Booly struggled to control his temper. “There’s a closet over there. . . . Perhaps one of your men would be kind enough to get my wife’s robe.”

  The marine’s eyes narrowed as the pistol came back to Booly. “Shut up! I won’t tell you again. Now, both of you, get off that bed. Or die right there. . . . It makes no difference to me.”

  Both Maylo and Booly could see that the offi?cer wasn’t bluffi?ng, which forced them to stand, something the male marines thoroughly enjoyed. Because although Booly was clad in a pair of boxer shorts, Maylo was completely naked. Her breasts were small, but fi?rm, with brown nipples. Creamy skin led down to a narrow waist, fl?ared hips, and long shapely legs. And rather than attempt to hide her private parts, the business executive held her hands out away from her body. “So, Captain,” she said. “Are you looking for weapons? Or just looking?”

  The captain blushed, ordered a female marine to help Maylo get dressed, and turned his attention back to Booly.

  “Clasp your hands behind your head and turn around.”

  Booly had no choice but to comply. The marine gave a snort of disgust when he saw the ridge of silvery fur that ran down the senior offi?cer’s spine. Evidence of a coupling that some saw as unnatural but many scientists pointed to as evidence that humans and Naa had common forerunner ancestors. “So what they say is true,” the marine said disgus
tedly. “You are a half-breed freak. And in command of our armed forces, too. Well, President Jakov will soon put a stop to that! Let’s fi?nd some civilian clothes for you to wear—since you have no right to a uniform.”

  A feeling of anticipation pervaded the executive dining room as a mix of civilians and military offi?cers stood waiting for the moment that all of them knew was coming. The long dining table had been pushed over against one wall—and a single chair stood on the riser at the south end of the room as the crowd awaited Vice President Leo Jakov. Assistant Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs, soon to be Secretary of Foreign Affairs Kay Wilmot, was extremely tired. And she had every right to be since the vast majority of the administrative work associated with what she preferred to call “the succession” had fallen to her. But as Jakov entered the room and took his place on the thronelike chair, it was worth it. Because even though exambassador Alway Orno had been assassinated before he could arrange for Nankool to be killed, she felt confi?dent that the new strategy would not only work, but work brilliantly. Especially given the fact that a rescue mission had been sent to Jericho, thereby proving Jakov’s sincerity, even though he was about to assume the presidency. Yes, there was the possibility that the rescue mission would fi?nd Nankool alive, but the battle group that was supposed to extract Team Zebra had been “diverted” to help with a very real threat elsewhere. Which meant no one would arrive to pick them up! So the succession plan was secure. Or would be once certain troublemakers had been dealt with.

  There was a stir at the back of the room as more than two dozen hooded fi?gures were escorted into the room. All wore cuffs and leg shackles, which in the case of the Hudathan prisoners, had been doubled to make sure they couldn’t break free. And, judging from the black eyes, cut lips, and swollen faces that were revealed as the hoods were removed, it quickly became apparent that many of the former offi?cials and offi?cers had put up a fi?ght. The purpose of the hoods was to prevent people in the halls and corridors from recognizing the prisoners. Especially General Booly, who, because of his popularity with the troops, was especially dangerous. Later, after a carefully worded indictment had been released, offi?cers recruited by Jakov would take over.

  Among those being herded into the room were General Bill Booly, his wife Maylo Chien-Chu, Colonel Kitty Kirby, Major Drik Seeba-Ka, Intelligence Chief Margaret Xanith, Ramanthian expert Yuro Osavi, diplomat Charles Vanderveen and a dozen more Nankool loyalists. All of whom looked grim and defi?ant. One individual was missing, however, and given his history, was a cause for concern. But even though Sergi Chien-Chu was still on the loose, Wilmot felt certain the marines would fi?nd the industrialist and bring him in.

  Fortunately, from Wilmot’s point of view, Triad Hiween Doma-Sa was off-planet. Because the Hudathan was not only a close ally of Nankool’s, but a head of state as well, he couldn’t be neutralized in the same fashion as the others could.

  So it was a special moment. One that Jakov had been looking forward to and was determined to enjoy. That was why the group had been brought before him. Not because there was any real need to do so—but to revel in his newly acquired power. “Good morning,” the vice president said, as the last of the prisoners was revealed. The greeting elicited snickers and even outright laughter from the sycophants, toadies, and other self-serving individuals who supported Jakov. All of them fell silent as the executive raised his hand. His eyes glittered as they roamed the room. “The Confederacy is at war, the president has been missing for months, and our citizens deserve strong leadership. With those factors in mind, and consistent with my responsibilities under the constitution, I will take over as interim Chief Executive as of 1300 hours this afternoon. The Senate has been notifi?ed to expect an announcement, as have the press, and I have every reason to expect a quick confi?rmation. Once that process has been completed my administration will take immediate steps to resolve the unfortunate confl?ict with the Ramanthians.”

  “The president is alive,” Booly said grimly, as his eyes roamed the faces in front of him. “And all of you know it. . . . You’re traitors, nothing more, and you’ll never get away with it.”

  “Really?” Jakov inquired sarcastically. “Rather than attack the legally constituted government, I suggest that you, your wife, and the cadre of scum you’ve been plotting with begin to think about how to defend yourselves against charges of criminal conspiracy and treason. Who knows?”

  the politician asked rhetorically. “Perhaps some of the criminals in the pit can offer you some advice. Especially the ones you sent there!”

  That elicited another round of jeers and laughter as the hoods were replaced for the long roundabout journey down to the pit. But as Booly waited for the cloth to come down over his eyes, he made a mental photograph of each face in front of him and sealed the images away. Because somehow, someday, they were going to pay.

  *

  *

  *

  The normally raucous prison, also known as “the pit,” was extremely quiet. And for good reason. Because while the prisoners weren’t in the political loop, they were hypersensitive to even the smallest change in prison routine. So when all their normal guards were suddenly “reassigned,”

  and replaced by marines brought in from off-planet, they knew something important was afoot—something very important indeed. So when orders were shouted, gates clanged open, and a new contingent of hooded prisoners shuffl?ed into the space between the cliffl?ike cellblocks they paid attention. The females were separated out and led away as the men were freed from their restraints.

  Chains rattled as shackles were removed, and cuffs clanged as they were tossed into a cleaning bucket before the heavily armed guards backed out of the pit. That was when the newly inducted prison rats were free to remove their hoods and look around. There was a long moment of silence while both groups regarded the other followed by a loud comment from one of the lowest tiers. “Well, I’ll be damned,” a grizzled legionnaire commented loudly. “If it isn’t General Bill Booly. . . . Come to lead us on the march into hell!”

  What happened next left the newly appointed warden dumbfounded. Because rather than turn on the general, as she had been led to believe they would, the prisoners shouted a greeting instead. It consisted of a single word. A word so loud it made the windows in her offi?ce rattle as she looked down into the concrete canyon.

  “CAMERONE!”

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Stars glittered above, but down on the jungle fl?oor it was as black as the inside of a combat boot, and the cyborgs were the only ones who could truly “see” the growing host of nymphs as they generated an almost deafening chittering noise, caused the foliage to rustle as if in response to a windstorm, and fi?lled the air with the acrid scent of their urine. The resulting tension was suffi?cient to make even the most-combat-hardened veteran sweat.

  Like all the rest of the bio bods, Santana was wearing his helmet, which not only served to protect his head, but provided access to the ITC and served to amplify the ambient light. But there wasn’t much light to amplify, which meant the legionnaire saw little more than green streaks as the adolescent Ramanthians dashed back and forth outside the stone walls. The team had fl?ares, of course, but their effectiveness was limited by the forest canopy, which meant the company would have to use jury-rigged spotlights once the fi?ghting began.

  Which was why every single legionnaire was at his or her post as Major DeCosta made his rounds. And, except for the senior offi?cer’s tendency to reinforce his orders with scriptural references, Santana had to admit that DeCosta had done a good job of preparing the company for combat. Each corner of the roughly rectangular space was protected by a well-entrenched RAV and a T-2. The rest of the cyborgs were evenly spaced along the perimeter, and interspersed with bio bods, who stood on improvised fi?ring steps so they could fi?re over the walls. All of which should make for an impenetrable curtain of fi?re once the nymphs attacked.

  That was DeCosta’s plan, anyway, and it wou
ld have worked if the nymphs hadn’t found their way into the labyrinth of passageways below Team Zebra and boiled up out of the ground inside the defensive perimeter. The stairway had been blocked, but not well enough, as the madly chittering mob managed to force its way through the opening. Watkins, who hadn’t been given a place on the fi?ring line, was the fi?rst to notice the incursion. “Watch out!” the civilian shouted, as the fi?rst bugs appeared. “They’re inside the wall!”

  But the warning generated a smaller response than the media specialist expected, because the aliens located outside of the enclosure chose that moment to attack as well, thereby forcing the defenders to respond to them at the same time. Flares shot upwards, collided with the canopy, and went off. Some of them remained there, trapped in the foliage, and others drifted down under tiny parachutes. Battle lights came on, and the fi?fties began to thump as what looked like a tidal wave of sharp beaks, chitinous bodies, and fl?uttering wings surged toward the walls. Each slug killed at least half a dozen Ramanthians as bolts of coherent energy plowed bloody furrows through the oncoming horde. The chatter of assault weapons and submachine guns was interspersed with the occasional crack of a grenade as hundreds of attackers fell.

  A legionnaire yelled, “Take that, you bastards!” as he emptied a clip into the mob and fumbled for another. But even as the oncoming wave faltered, the defenders were attacked from within. Sergeant Jan Obama screamed as two nymphs landed on her back. Body armor protected her from the fi?rst few bites, but a third found her throat and ripped it out. Blood sprayed the surrounding area as Private Dimitri Bozakov turned to spray both the dead legionnaire and the Ramanthians with steel-jacketed bullets. But before the troopers on the wall had time to fully engage the enemies behind them, another wave of nymphs surged out of the jungle and into the harsh light. DeCosta was busy. So that left Watkins, Santana, and Farnsworth to deal with the steady stream of Ramanthians that continued to pour up out of the passageways below. Not an easy task since a poorly aimed shot could kill one of the legionnaires beyond. “Put your backs to the walls and keep them contained!” Santana shouted, as he fi?red a burst from his CA-10. The tricentennials seemed to fl?y apart as the bullets shattered their exoskeletons and threw sheets of viscous goo in every direction.