When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  The result was a series of supposedly accidental bumps, guttural insults, and thinly veiled threats as the group of six raggedy POWs jogged toward the ruins. There was nothing Vanderveen could do but ignore the comments and keep her distance from the other prisoners as they entered the passageway that led back into what had originally been a steep pyramid. The top had been removed so that the space elevator could be anchored deep within—a laborious process that required weeks of hard labor and cost more than a dozen lives.

  The cable eye was already in sight by the time Vanderveen and her companions entered the anchor chamber. There was a loud whining noise as the last fi?fty feet of dragline wound itself onto the drum, accompanied by a nearly deafening clatter, as a dozen metal pawls passed over the huge ratchet wheel positioned to secure the space cable once the correct amount of tension was applied. A decision that would be made by the Ramanthian engineer assigned to supervise the process. And, lest the prisoners attempt to interfere, fi?ve heavily armed troopers were present as well.

  “You!” the Ramanthian said, as he pointed at Vanderveen and her companions. “Lift the pin and prepare to push it home.”

  The “pin” was about six feet long and a half foot in diameter. And, thanks to the fact that the cylinder was made out of solid metal, it was heavy. So four prisoners were required to hoist the pin up off the fl?oor and position one end next to the enormous shackle.

  “Here it comes!” someone shouted, as the winch pulled the cable eye down through the hole above. That was the signal for a second team of POWs to rush forward and grab the fi?tting. But there was still plenty of slack in the space cable, so when a strong gust of wind hit the line two thousand feet above them, the eye jerked upwards and took two marines with it.

  There was a horrible scream, followed by a bloody rain, as one of the men was crushed against the edge of the overhead opening. “Hold!” the Ramanthian ordered sternly, as the winch pulled the cable eye down into the anchor chamber for the second time. Vanderveen held her breath as the loop entered the open shackle and waited for the Ramanthian to say, “Now!” The diplomat helped her fellow POWs lift the heavy pin and push it through the holes. The metal cylinder slid smoothly through the holes on both sides of the shackle, thereby locking the space tether in place. Metal rattled as the cable tested the strength of its mooring, the POWs fell back, and the most important part of the space elevator was complete.

  What the Ramanthian engineer didn’t know was that the structure holding the shackle in place had been systematically weakened during the construction process, and while strong enough to do the job under normal circumstances, would come apart if subjected to excessive stress. Or that’s what the POWs hoped would happen. But there was a lot of guesswork involved, so no one could be sure.

  It was late afternoon by that time, so the prisoners were marched along the edge of the airstrip past the Ramanthian who had been in charge of the overheated air car. He was dead by then, having been hanged from a light standard as an example to the rest of the troops. One of Tragg’s robotic monitors was waiting for Vanderveen as she entered the camp. The machine spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Your dinner will be served in ten minutes, Lieutenant Trevane. . . . Master Tragg is waiting.”

  That was suffi?cient to earn the diplomat another barrage of verbal abuse from the rest of the prisoners. But to refuse would have been to sentence one of them to death. That left Vanderveen with no choice but to trudge across the compound to the gazebo, where the renegade sat waiting. “You’re covered with blood,” Tragg observed, as the young woman took her seat.

  “Yes,” Vanderveen said matter-of-factly, as she examined the brown blotches on her upper chest and her arms.

  “And so are you.”

  Tragg didn’t like that, and his right hand strayed to a pistol. Vanderveen smiled thinly. “Go ahead,” she suggested. “Pull that gun and shoot me.”

  The blond had said similar things before, and Tragg knew she meant it. The problem was that the naval offi?cer had been pushed so far, and for so long, that she no longer feared death. In fact, judging from the look in Trevane’s eyes, the young woman wanted to die. She still cared about those around her, however, and that provided the mercenary with the leverage he required. “Eat your food,” the overseer said coldly. “Or would you like to see someone else die?”

  So Vanderveen ate her food. And it tasted good, and her body wanted it, and that made her feel guilty. Tears had begun to fl?ow, and were carving tracks through the grime on her cheeks, when a strange chittering sound was heard. The noise wasn’t that noticeable at fi?rst, but soon grew louder, as the foliage beyond the electrifi?ed fence began to rustle.

  Tragg was on his feet by then and reaching for his rifl?e, as the fi?rst nymphs emerged from the jungle. They were fairly large by that time, about the size of the average tenyear-old boy, and very hungry. Their cognitive functions had increased, too—as evidenced by the way some of them probed the fence with long sticks. That produced a shower of sparks, which sent most of the juveniles scurrying back into the jungle. But they returned a couple of minutes later—and more appeared with each passing second. The chittering sound was much louder by then, loud enough to bring both Mutuus out of the headquarters building, as the acrid scent of nymph urine fi?lled the air. The Ramanthians up in the towers aimed their machine guns down at the juveniles but were clearly reluctant to fi?re. Vanderveen had left the gazebo by then and noticed something that should have been obvious before. The top of the electrifi?ed fence angled outwards, meaning the Ramanthians were more concerned about external attacks than prisoner escapes! Which meant they knew the nymphs could be hostile.

  No sooner had the thought occurred to the POW than a spear fell from the quickly darkening sky, struck a sergeant in the upper thorax, and shattered his chitin. The soldier fell without making a sound, and the chittering increased. That was enough for Commandant Mutuu, who screamed, “Fire!”

  But even as the machine guns began to chug, and the rattle of automatic rifl?e fi?re was added to mix, a loud cracking sound was heard. The tree that the nymphs had chosen to fall was well back in the jungle. But it soon became evident that the very top of the forest giant was within range of the fence as the mass of foliage descended on the camp. There was a crash, accompanied by an explosion of sparks, as the tree trunk fl?attened a section of fence. Within a matter of seconds the nymphs had swarmed up onto the newly created bridge and were following it in toward the center of the compound. Grenades went off, and body parts were hurled high into the air, as the guns continued to cut the invaders down. But there were plenty more—

  and all of them were hungry for protein.

  The prisoners had evacuated their barracks by then and were beginning to congregate at the center of the camp, when a fl?ight of fi?fty well-thrown spears rained down on them. A sailor screamed as one of the incoming missiles drove her to the ground. Vanderveen went to the rating’s aid but found there was nothing she or anyone else could do.

  Within a matter of seconds more trees were falling, at least half of which missed the mark, but the result was to divide the Ramanthian machine-gun fi?re, which allowed dozens of nymphs to successfully enter the compound. Tragg and his Sheen robots were there to meet the chittering invaders. There was no way to know if the overseer was trying to defend himself or his Ramanthian employers, not that it made any difference.

  But the nymphs could fl?y. And it wasn’t long before dozens of airborne attackers landed on the towers, which forced the Ramanthians on the ground to fi?re up at them or risk having their machines guns turned on themselves. Though not a military man, Nankool believed he knew what would happen next as he appeared at Vanderveen’s side. The president’s heavily bearded face was gaunt, and his voice was urgent. “Mutuu is going to call in an airstrike on the camp! Tell everyone to take cover! Do it now!”

  So Vanderveen, along with other members of the LG, did the best they could to urge those prisoners still out in the open to roll un
der buildings, take shelter in latrines, or hide in any other place that might provide protection from both the fl?ying nymphs and the planes that were most likely on the way.

  As the POWs scattered, each searching for his or her personal hole, the War Mutuu had taken to the fi?eld. Backed by two troopers armed with rifl?es, the warrior was standing in front of the main building, seemingly oblivious to the spears that fell around him. Light glinted off steel as his razor-sharp blade rose and fell. There was an audible ka-ching each time a head rolled, interspersed by rifl?e shots, as the soldiers kept fl?ying nymphs at a distance. But there was no further opportunity to observe the War Mutuu or anything else as a brace of ground-based aerospace fi?ghters roared overhead and began their bloody work. Not with bombs, which would have destroyed everything, but with rockets and guns. Not just around the perimeter of Camp Enterprise alone, but along the edges of the airfi?eld, where dozens of nymphs threatened to overrun the space elevator’s anchor point.

  Vanderveen went facedown in the dirt as one of the fi?ghters made a gun run parallel to the south fence, and felt someone grab hold of her ankles. It wasn’t until after the diplomat had been pulled in under the dubious protection of the admin building that she turned to discover that her rescuer was none other than Undersecretary of Defense Corley Calisco. He grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! You gotta give the bugs credit. . . . They certainly know how to keep the kids in line.” The comment was punctuated by a series of explosions as one of the low-fl?ying planes made a rocket run to the north, and the ground trembled in response.

  The fi?ght continued for another ten minutes, but came to its inevitable conclusion soon after that, as the surviving nymphs were driven back into the surrounding jungle. The fi?ghters made one last pass, and upon getting the all clear, turned back toward the north. A heavy silence hung over the camp as the smoke started to clear. Then, as the POWs began to emerge from their various hiding places, the Ramanthians went out to gather their dead. And not just the adult soldiers but the juveniles as well. A huge task, given that the casualties lay in drifts, but one they carried out themselves, in spite of the fact that slave labor was available. Adding to the horror of the situation was the fact that while some of the nymphs were wounded, none showed any inclination to surrender, and snapped at anyone who attempted to aid them. Shots rang out as they were put down.

  The Ramanthians didn’t have tear ducts, so they couldn’t cry, but there was no mistaking the feeling of intense sorrow that hung over the camp as the sun dipped below the western horizon, and huge funeral pyres began to take shape. Because nameless though the attackers were, each nymph was born of the Queen, and a citizen of the empire. So when morning came the fi?res would be lit, the half-grown bodies would be purifi?ed, and the smoke would carry more than a thousand spirits away. But no matter how moving the process might be, Vanderveen knew she could never forgive the atrocities that the bugs had committed and watched clear-eyed as the Ramanthians harvested their dead. You think that’s bad?

  the POW thought to herself. Well, just wait. . . . I may not live to see it. . . . But there’s more to come. Having completed the hike from the shallow lake to a point only two miles shy of Camp Enterprise, Santana and his company had gone into hiding. No easy thing to do where the ten-foot-tall cyborgs were concerned—and a task made even more diffi?cult by the heat that radiated from their bodies.

  But unlike his dead predecessor, Santana was a cavalry offi?cer and therefore more knowledgeable regarding what the borgs could and couldn’t do. He knew the T-2s could not only operate underwater, where their heat signatures would be concealed, but do so for days if necessary. So rather than hide them in the jungle, Santana followed a river down to a series of stair-stepped pools, where the cyborgs were ordered to submerge themselves. The offi?cer knew that would be boring, but it would also be safe, and that had priority.

  Having hidden the most formidable part of the team where aerial patrols were very unlikely to fi?nd it, Santana was free to turn his attention to Camp Enterprise. Thanks to what Oliver Batkin had accomplished earlier, the cavalry offi?cer already had an excellent idea of how the compound was laid out. But time had passed since the cyborg’s escape from the POW camp, which meant things could have changed. Not to mention the fact that Santana was hungry for the sort of tactical minutiae the government spy had no reason to collect. Like the location of drainage ditches, the exact disposition of the POWs, how many could walk, the precise number of Ramanthian troops inside the wire, the size of the quick-reaction force stationed at the airstrip, how many shuttles were parked on the tarmac, where the power core was located, the status of the space elevator project, and much, much, more. All of which would have a bearing on the plan of attack. In order to gather the necessary intelligence, Santana planned to send Batkin forward during the cover of darkness in the hope that the cyborg would be able to penetrate the camp’s perimeter and collect useful information. Meanwhile, Noaim Shootstraight, Dimitri Bozakov, and Santana himself were to infi?ltrate the area with an eye to fi?nding the best avenues of attack.

  Farnsworth took exception to that part of the plan, suggesting it was foolish for the commanding offi?cer to take such risks, but his objections fell on deaf ears. Santana wanted to see the lay of the land with his own eyes, not just hear about it, so Farnsworth was left in command as the offi?cer and his scouts disappeared into the jungle. All three were lightly dressed, carried a minimum amount of equipment, and wore green-and-black face paint. It was midafternoon when they left the riverbank and entered the sun-dappled world of the forest. The fi?rst thing Santana noticed was the almost complete absence of the raucous jungle sounds he had grown used to. In their place was the sound of his own breathing, the steady swishswish of his pant legs as they rubbed against each other, and the occasional snap of a dry twig. Was their presence responsible for the change? Or was something else at hand? Unfortunately, there was no way to tell as the scouting party continued to weave its way between spindly vine-wrapped tree trunks.

  But as the threesome continued to advance, and paused every now and then to look and listen, Shootstraight became increasingly concerned. Because the legionnaire had an extremely acute sense of smell, and as a light breeze pushed its way in from the west, it brought something with it. A scent so faint the Naa wasn’t sure what it was, until the chittering sound began. “Nymphs!” Shootstraight said urgently. “Quick! Climb that tree. . . . It’s our only chance!”

  In spite of the fact that nothing had registered on his senses Santana had a great deal of faith in the Naa and reacted accordingly. Though not an experienced tree-climber, the offi?cer was in good shape, and there were plenty of footholds. Not to mention vines to pull on, which made the ascent easier and helped the legionnaires make their way up to the point where fi?ve branches shot out like spokes in a wheel. That created a natural place to stop as the fi?rst wave of nymphs passed below.

  The offi?cer half expected the juveniles to pause and look upwards. But judging from the way they moved, the juveniles had a specifi?c destination in mind. Which, given the way they were headed, was the camp itself. That hypothesis proved accurate fi?fteen minutes later, when gunfi?re was heard, aerospace fi?ghters roared over the treetops, and a series of ground attacks began. “Holy shit,”

  Bozakov said feelingly. “The little buggers are attacking their own kind!”

  “And being killed by them,” Santana observed.

  “What about the POWs?” Shootstraight wanted to know. “How will they fare?”

  “They’re inside the fence,” the offi?cer replied optimistically. “So that should offer some protection.”

  The Naa wasn’t so sure, especially given the fact that the bugs could fl?y, but decided to keep his doubts to himself.

  The sounds of battle died away eventually, the sun went down, and there was a loud rustling as hundreds of nymphs retreated through the forest below chittering as they went. That was very frightening, especially since the bio bods couldn’t see and were so li
ghtly armed. But while the juveniles were aware that protein things lived in the branches high above them, they also knew how elusive such creatures could be and made no attempt to scale the tree. Once the rustling noise died away, and usual night sounds began to reassert themselves, the scouts returned to the ground. Then, with Shootstraight in the lead, they continued the journey north. It was impossible to get lost because the swath of destruction created by the nymph army was like a superhighway that led straight to Camp Enterprise. Which, understandably enough, was very well lit. The lights were their cue to climb another tree and scope the compound from above, which Santana did with assistance from a pair of powerful light-gathering binos. That was when the offi?cer saw the way the fence had been breached, the crews working feverishly to repair it, and the less obvious activity beyond. But even with the illumination provided by the pole-mounted fl?oodlights it was diffi?cult to make out the fi?ne details of what was going on, so there was very little Santana and the other scouts could do but get some rest before the sun rose.

  It wasn’t easy, but having tied himself in place with some light cord, the offi?cer eventually fell asleep. There were dreams, lots of them, and one face haunted them all. But Vanderveen was dead, as were his hopes, and all of the futures that might have been.

  Bozakov heard the offi?cer mutter in his sleep and understood, because he had nightmares of his own, dreams so bad his squad mates had to wake him at times. But the bio bod knew it was important to let the offi?cer rest. Because the entire team agreed that if there was any one individual who could get them off Jericho, that man was Captain Antonio Santana.