When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  The offi?cial clacked his right pincer by way of an acknowledgment, checked to ensure that both his antenna and wings were positioned just so, and left the waiting area for the ramp that led up to the royal platform. All manner of courtiers, offi?cials, and military offi?cers had emerged from their various lairs to take up positions on the platforms adjacent to the walkway. Ubatha exchanged greetings with the more-senior members of the royal entourage as the rich amalgamation of odors associated with the Queen and the egg-laying process came into contact with his olfactory antennae and triggered the usual chemical changes.

  Having gained the top level, Ubatha saw the brandnew enclosure off to his right, and decided to risk the Queen’s displeasure by nodding in that direction. A gesture intended to convey acceptance and respect. Then, having turned toward the monarch, he bent a knee. “I’m not dead yet,” the Queen said tartly.

  “Nor will you ever be,” Ubatha replied smoothly. “Since you live within our hearts.”

  That elicited the Ramanthian equivalent of laughter, since the royal didn’t believe a word of it, but admired the way it had been done. “You are absolutely shameless,” the Queen observed indulgently. “But useful nevertheless.”

  Ubatha bowed. “Majesty.”

  “So,” the monarch said, “it seems that congratulations are in order. . . . I understand you located ex-ambassador Orno and put him to death.”

  “Thank you, Majesty,” Ubatha replied humbly. “But the credit for the execution belongs to your chief of intelligence rather than myself.”

  Meanwhile, still hidden within her fabric-draped enclosure, the chosen took note. Another one of the things that made Ubatha different from so many of the empire’s offi?cials was his willingness to form alliances and then honor them. It was a strategy cunningly devised to make him more effective and reduce the amount of blame that would otherwise come his way when an initiative went awry. All of which would be taken into consideration when the Chancellor went to work for her.

  “Yes,” the Queen replied. “My intelligence service deserves both credit for terminating the ambassador—and some of the blame for allowing the Egg Orno to live. The agent responsible for that failure has been assigned to a research station on an ice planet.”

  “As he should be,” Ubatha replied sanctimoniously. What was the chosen thinking, he wondered? And would she be as challenging to deal with as her predecessor? Yes, he decided. The royal clan breeds true.

  “But that’s a minor detail,” the monarch continued dismissively. “My intelligence chief offered to take care of the oversight personally, but I told him no. Having lost both mates and narrowly escaped death herself, the Egg Orno has suffered enough.”

  “You are known for your mercifulness,” Ubatha intoned, and momentarily wondered if he had pushed it too far. But because the Queen truly believed she was merciful, the fl?attery slid past her if not the chosen one.

  “But you didn’t come here to discuss the Ornos,” the monarch said, as she gave birth to another fi?fty citizens.

  “No, Highness. I didn’t,” Ubatha agreed. The Confederacy put out an announcement, a rather interesting announcement, that was relayed to me by the Thraki ambassador.”

  “An ugly breed,” the Queen observed distastefully.

  “But I digress. What is that pack of degenerates up to now?” Both the monarch and the chosen listened intently as Ubatha relayed the news regarding Nankool’s disappearance and Jakov’s elevation to the presidency.

  “What do we know about this Jakov person?” the Queen wanted to know, as the narrative came to a close.

  “We know he’s ruthless,” Ubatha observed. “Since he made the announcement in spite of the possibility that Nankool is alive. Details regarding Jakov’s background will be included in your mid-morning intelligence briefi?ng.”

  “Good,” the monarch replied. “Perhaps this human will prove to be more reasonable than his predecessor was.”

  That was a given insofar as the chosen was concerned. Because she had been careful to memorize all the information available regarding Nankool’s staff—and was pretty sure that Jakov would make signifi?cant concessions for a peace that left him in charge of the Confederacy. A promising development indeed.

  “And Nankool?” the Queen inquired. “Is he among the prisoners?”

  “I don’t know yet, Majesty,” Ubatha replied honestly.

  “But I will certainly fi?nd out.”

  PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE

  Thanks to the repellers that kept it aloft, the Ramanthian scout car could travel more slowly than a conventional aircraft could, giving the insectoid troopers plenty of time in which to inspect the verdant jungle below. And that was what they were doing as the air car drifted over the treetops.

  Thanks to advance notice from both Batkin and the T-2s, Team Zebra had been given plenty of warning before the scout car arrived. Enough to hide themselves under a thick layer of foliage, activate all of their countermeasures, and suspend use of their radios. That strategy had proven effective three times over the last few days. As the insistent thrumming noise generated by the scout car increased, and the downdraft from the Ramanthian repellers caused the treetops to thrash about, Santana and the rest of the legionnaires peered upwards. They hoped to escape notice one more time but feared they wouldn’t. And for good reason since it was clear from Batkin’s electronic intercepts that the bugs knew some sort of incursion had taken place.

  How didn’t really matter, although there was the distinct possibility that the battle with the nymphs had been visible from space or that one of their patrols had stumbled across the body-strewn clearing. And, had the Ramanthian military presence on Jericho been larger, it was almost certain the team would have been interdicted by that time. But since there weren’t all that many soldiers on the ground, and those present had their pincers full guarding both civilian and military POWs, the aliens had been unable to bring a suffi?cient amount of bug-power to bear on the problem. Up until that point anyway. As if working in concert with Santana’s thoughts, the scout car paused almost directly above the hidden legionnaires and hovered, as if the Ramanthian troopers had seen something suspicious. If they had, and tried to report it, Batkin would “hear” and order the T-2s to fi?re. The scout car and its occupants would almost certainly be destroyed. But, rather than improve, conditions would almost certainly become worse. Because when the scout car failed to return, even more units would be sent to the area, and the team would soon be located. So everything was at stake as the enemy vehicle hung like a sword over the legionnaires’ heads.

  But just when Santana feared that discovery was imminent, the engine noise increased, and the vehicle slid toward the north. No one moved. . . . And it was a good thing, too. Because the Ramanthians returned four minutes later. The scout car thrummed softly as it passed over them a hundred feet higher than before. They’re looking to see if anyone or anything went into motion after they left, Santana thought to himself. The bastards.

  The team was forced to remain where it was for another hour before DeCosta felt it was safe to proceed. Precious time was lost, but the team had gone undetected. Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon was relatively uneventful. The company was able to make fairly good time since they had Batkin to scout the area ahead and guide them around obstacles.

  Finally, as the sun started to set, Batkin led the team out into a shallow lake. It was the same lake the Confederacy POWs had been forced to cross on their way to Camp Enterprise. And it was then, as they passed through a grove of frothy-topped trees and entered the oily-looking water, that everyone got a good look at the space elevator hanging above them. The structure was very nearly pink at the moment, and incredibly beautiful, as it hung suspended halfway between day and night.

  A line of poles led them out to the island at the center of the lake. It was the same spot where the POWs had camped for the night—and Cassidy had subsequently been roasted over a fi?re. Camping on a trail utilized by the Ramanthi
ans clearly entailed some risk, but Batkin theorized that the marauding nymphs wouldn’t want to get wet, and DeCosta was willing to try it.

  But rather than camp outside, as the POWs had, the major insisted that the entire team spend the night inside the half-buried building, where they were less likely to be detected from the air. The mazelike interior was a mess—

  so work was required to make a section habitable. It was dark by the time carefully screened fi?res were lit, battle lamps came on, and the evening routine began. The second squad of the second platoon had guard duty. That left the rest of the legionnaires free to choose a section of fl?oor to sleep on and prepare a communal meal, a brew made more fl?avorful by the addition of nonissue sauces and spicy condiments.

  Then, once the meal had been eaten, and the legionnaires’ mess kits had been washed in the lake, it was time for the so-called foot patrol, which was when Kia Darby, who doubled as a medic, went from person to person and inspected their feet. A none-too-pleasant chore, but an important one for any group of soldiers, including those who rode war forms all day. Because in spite of that advantage, the bio bods still had blisters caused by the continuous upand-down movement natural to riding a T-2. And most of them had a fungus known as J-rot (Jericho rot), which was resistant to every medication Darby could bring to bear—

  except for the strange goo that Sergeant Ibo-Da conjured up from his Hudathan-style med kit.

  It was different for the cyborgs however, who had no need for sleep sacks, improvised meals, or Darby’s roughand-ready medical care. They did require maintenance, however, and lots of it, which meant that once cybertechs Toolman and Bozakov had been checked by Darby, they went to work making whatever adjustments and repairs they could. The process normally consumed at least a couple of hours. Then, once that task was done, it was time for the weary technicians to work on the RAVs. Which was why neither legionnaire had to stand guard duty. Meanwhile, as the troops took care of routine matters, DeCosta was holding an impromptu strategy session in one of the boxlike rooms. The ostensible purpose of the get-together was to formulate a plan that would carry them from their present location to Camp Enterprise. But the truth was that DeCosta already knew how he wanted to proceed, and was primarily interested in getting the other offi?cers to concur, a pro forma agreement that would help cover his ass if anything went wrong. “The crux of the matter is this,” the little offi?cer said earnestly, as the light from a small fi?re lit his dark jowls from below. “The T-2s have been valuable up to this point, I concede that, but the tactical situation is about to change. The cyborgs generate heat, which in spite of their shielding, can be detected by Class III scanners like the ones we can expect to encounter at Camp Enterprise.”

  Meanwhile, what none of the offi?cers knew was that legionnaire Jas Hargo was standing on the other side of the wall, listening to every word through a small crack. Listening, and becoming increasingly angry, as the strategy session continued.

  “It’s a possibility,” Santana allowed politely. “But if Class III scanners were present, you would think the bugs would have nailed Batkin before he crossed the fence. Or later when he was inside the camp. Maybe we should ask him to join us.”

  “You can’t be serious,” DeCosta replied incredulously.

  “I mean think about what you’re saying man. . . . He’s one of them.”

  “By which you mean cyborgs,” Farnsworth put in.

  “Yes, or course I do!” the major replied irritably. “Don’t be thick, Lieutenant. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the fi?nal approach. . . . Stealth will be everything, surely you can see that, which means that ten-foot-tall electromechanical freaks will be a liability.”

  Upon hearing himself described as a “freak,” it was all Hargo could do to prevent himself from putting an enormous shoulder to the wall and knocking it down on top of DeCosta. But that would be stupid because the serial killer had no desire to return to the pit.

  “Stealth will be important,” Santana allowed, as he met the other offi?cer’s eyes. “But so will fi?repower. And that’s where the T-2s come in. Once we close with the camp, we’ll be up against a well-dug-in, numerically superior force. You’ve seen the pictures Batkin took. Without the cyborgs, we’ll never penetrate the fence.”

  DeCosta was angry by then, and it showed. “You have a negative attitude, Captain. A very negative attitude. Something I will make clear in my after-action report.”

  “You do that,” Santana replied grimly. “And be sure to include the following. . . . I formally protest your plan as being both unprofessional and contrary to the traditions of the Legion, since it’s clear that you intend to abandon part of your command on an enemy-held planet.”

  “That’s absurd!” DeCosta responded hotly. “Once we enter the camp, and I assure you we will, the cyborgs will come forward to join us.”

  “Maybe,” Farnsworth allowed cautiously. “But what if there isn’t enough time for that to occur? Or the bugs pin them down? The pickup ships aren’t likely to wait.”

  “All of us are expendable,” DeCosta replied darkly.

  “Even your precious freaks. And that brings this meeting to a close. Good evening, gentlemen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Servos whined, and a gigantic fi?st opened and closed in the room next door, as Santana and Farnsworth got up to leave. The ancient building was quiet after that, until morning came, and it was time for muster. The plan was to cross the rest of the lake before sunrise. That would take a while, especially since the bio bods were not only going to travel on foot but carry heavy packs as well.

  There was a sizable entry hall on the west side of the building, and that’s where Santana was, adjusting the straps on his pack, when Farnsworth entered from outside. What light there was came from their helmets. “Excuse me, sir,”

  the veteran platoon leader said. “But we have a problem.”

  Santana frowned. “A problem? What sort of problem?”

  “It’s Major DeCosta, sir,” the other offi?cer answered deliberately. “We can’t fi?nd him.”

  Santana stood. “You searched the island?”

  “Twice, sir. The last person to see the major was Sergeant Gomez. That was about two in the morning when the major made his rounds.”

  Santana was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was bleak. “Was Private Hargo on sentry duty at that time?”

  Farnsworth nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. He reports to Gomez. So, you think Hargo had something to do with the major’s disappearance?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Santana said thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t want to put the theory forward without proof. Jericho is a dangerous place. All sorts of things could have happened. Let’s search the island one more time—and send Batkin up for a look-see. Even though it’s dark, the major’s heat signature should be visible assuming he’s alive.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Farnsworth replied hesitantly. “And if he isn’t? Or we can’t fi?nd him? Are the cyborgs going to remain here or come with us?”

  “They’re coming with us,” Santana said grimly. “We’re going to need them. And there’s no way I’m leaving anybody behind.”

  “Yes, sir!” Farnsworth replied cheerfully, and did a neat about-face.

  Santana heard the whine of servos and turned to fi?nd Snyder looming over him. His helmet light wobbled up to her immobile face. “Is what they say true, sir? Does the major plan to leave us here?”

  “I believe that was the major’s intent,” the platoon leader replied honestly. “But he’s missing. So, unless he turns up soon, I will be in command.”

  “And you wouldn’t leave us, would you, sir?” the cyborg asked uncertainly.

  “Are you kidding?” Santana demanded. “I’d have to walk! And you know how I feel about infantry regiments.”

  Snyder made a deep rumbling sound that Santana knew to be laughter. And, because all of the T-2s could communicate with each other by radio, the rest of the cyborgs were aware of the XO’s comments within a matt
er of minutes.

  Jas Hargo couldn’t smile. The cyborg simply wasn’t capable of doing so. But he felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction when the fi?nal word came down ten minutes later. DeCosta was missing, Santana had assumed command, and the bio bods were going to mount up.

  The entire outfi?t was under way ten minutes later, minus Major Hal DeCosta that is, who lay about fi?fteen feet offshore with a 150-pound block of stone on his chest. His head, which had been torn off, rested fi?fty feet farther out. There were witnesses, of course, but none of them were sentient, or could ever be called upon to testify. They were hungry however—and eager to eat their fi?ll. PLANET ALGERON, THE CONFEDERACY OF SENTIENT BEINGS

  Winter was almost over, so half of the underground storeroom was empty and would remain so until more bags of fl?our arrived in the fall. That meant there was plenty of space in which to have a meeting one level below the fl?oor where the bakery’s ancient ovens continued to produce bread for the citizens of Naa town.

  With a single exception, all of those present in the room were Naa, and therefore uniformly suspicious of the blond man who sat below a dangling glow rod, his hands on his knees. His name was Sergi Chien-Chu, and while decidedly male, didn’t really think of himself as human anymore. Not since his brain had been removed from his dying body and installed in the fi?rst of what would eventually become a succession of cybernetic vehicles. The latest of which had been fashioned to resemble that of a twenty-fi?ve-year-old human male. “So, human,” the baker growled. “The entire council is here. Just as you requested.

  Now tell me why we shouldn’t remove your head—and turn it in for the one-million-credit reward that the government is offering?”

  “Because doing so would be messy,” Chien-Chu replied calmly. “Not to mention the fact that I’m still using it.”

  Though town dwellers now, most of the council had been warriors once, and chuckled appreciatively. Although he was alone, and unarmed, the human wasn’t afraid. Or, if he was, had the ability to hide it. A truly Naa-like quality and one they admired. “But, more to the point,” the businessman continued, “I’m here because the Confederacy needs your help. President Nankool is alive, but being held by the Ramanthians, who don’t know they have him. By announcing that fact, Jakov may cause the president’s death, or provide the bugs with leverage they wouldn’t otherwise have, thereby threatening the Confederacy. And I believe that you have the power to stop it.”