When All Seems Los lotd-7

by William C. Dietz

  Because of his status as a civilian, Watkins was the last member of Team Zebra to enter the compound, albeit on a lumbering RAV rather than a T-2, since all of the war forms were required for combat. That made for a slower ride but provided the media specialist with a relatively steady platform from which to record everything he saw and heard. But as the robot paused to fi?re a burst from its nose gun, Watkins was only marginally aware of the battle he’d been sent to cover. Because the only thing the civilian really cared about was fi?nding Maximillian Tragg and killing him. The problem was how? Reinforcements had arrived by then, and a T-2 exploded as it took a direct hit from an RPG.

  Meanwhile, another guard tower fell and crushed a fi?le of bugs under its weight, as the battle continued to ebb and fl?ow. All this seemed to suggest that it would be impossible to fi?nd Tragg, until Watkins noticed that a fl?ight of three silvery remotes were headed toward the airfi?eld and remembered the pictures of Tragg walking through the jungle accompanied by a coterie of robots, including the type now headed north. The bastard was trying to escape!

  Excited now, Watkins slid down off the RAV and began to run. And, thanks to the capabilities of his electromechanical body, the cyborg was fast. The media specialist had a rocket launcher slung across his back along with a reload. The weapons bounced painfully as he ran. A Ramanthian machine gunner had noticed the interloper by then and turned his weapon in that direction. Geysers of dirt fl?ew up all around Watkins as he zigzagged across what had been the camp’s assembly area and made for the fence beyond. “Don’t worry, Marci,” the cyborg said. “I’ll get the bastard this time. . . . And he’s going to pay!”

  Vanderveen could see giants striding through the lazy ground mist, hear the sporadic rattle of automatic fi?re, and smell the acrid smoke. And there, standing right in front of her, was Antonio Santana! That was impossible, of course, so it must be a dream. A wonderful dream in which he had come to rescue her. The legionnaire’s visor was up, and his face was fi?lled with concern. “Christine? Can you hear me?

  Don’t worry. . . . We’ll have you down in a minute.”

  It seemed so real that Vanderveen tried to respond. But try as she might nothing came out of her mouth until she saw the War Mutuu appear out of the billowing smoke.

  That was when the words fi?nally took form. “Tony! Behind you!”

  Santana whirled to fi?nd that a Ramanthian was ready to strike. And because the warrior’s sword was already up in the air, poised to split the offi?cer in two, there was no time in which to do anything other than push the assault weapon up with both hands. But the War Mutuu’s monomolecular blade sliced through the CA-10’s steel receiver as if it were warm butter and would have gone on to bury itself in the legionnaire’s skull had the soldier been even a fraction of a second slower to react.

  The Ramanthian jerked his weapon loose, raised it over his head, and brought it back down again. Fortunately, Santana was in the process of throwing himself backwards by then. He landed on his back as the superthin blade sliced through empty air.

  That was the War Mutuu’s cue to raise his sword for what should have been an easy kill, and what would have been an easy kill, had it not been for Maria Gomez. Because as a horrifi?ed Vanderveen looked on, a much-bloodied legionnaire lurched out of the smoke and threw herself forward.

  Santana felt Gomez land on top of him, and as he looked up into a pair of pain-fi?lled eyes, the offi?cer saw something he would never forget. A look of longing the likes of which he’d never seen before. Then it was gone as the War Mutuu’s blade sliced through the noncom’s body armor and into her spine.

  The Ramanthian withdrew his sword, and was about to take another cut, when he heard the telltale whine of servos. Though delayed, Snyder arrived in time to see Gomez die, and that made the T-2 angry. So when the War Mutuu turned to confront the cyborg she chose to fi?re her fl?amethrower rather than the .50-caliber machine gun. There was a whoosh, as the liquid fuel hit the Ramanthian, followed by a solid whump as the warrior was enveloped by a cocoon of orange-yellow fl?ames. That was followed by a series of bloodcurdling screams as the aristocrat began a horrible dance of death.

  The end came when Santana managed to roll out from under Gomez, scrambled to his feet, and drew his pistol. It took three shots to put the War Mutuu down. But even as the Ramanthian’s chitin crackled, and his internal organs began to sizzle, the sword clutched in his charred pincer continued to shine.

  Meanwhile, Santana forced himself to concentrate on his command. It wasn’t easy, not with Vanderveen still standing on the cross above him, but the legionnaire knew the entire team was counting on him to provide direction. Fortunately, the data on his HUD, plus what the offi?cer could see with his own eyes, suggested that Team Zebra was well on its way to controlling the camp. But they hadn’t found Nankool yet, more Ramanthian reinforcements were probably on the way, and there was no sign of the goddamned navy. “This is Alpha Six,” the company commander said. “We’re going to need some tools and a couple of medics to get the people down off those crosses. And has anyone seen Batkin? We need to grab the target and get the hell out of here.”

  Vanderveen’s throat was bone dry—and her voice was hoarse. “Look in the administration building. The commandant has him.”

  Santana was going to thank her when what sounded like a runaway train rumbled overhead. That was followed by an earsplitting crack as a large crater materialized at the center of the compound. A windmilling T-2 fell out of the air, landed with a sickening crunch, and was half-buried by falling dirt. Even though they ran the risk of hitting their own troops, the Ramanthians had decided to fi?re energy cannons from orbit rather than allow the compound to be overrun. “Damn it,” Santana said, as what sounded like another freight train rattled through the atmosphere. “Where are those ships?” There was no reply other than a loud explosion, the continued clatter of a machine gun, and the sound of another scream.

  The administration building shook as something struck the ground outside. A blizzard of dust particles came loose from the rafters to drift down through a momentary shaft of sunlight even as a burst of machine-gun bullets passed within a foot of Marcott Nankool and ripped holes in the wall beyond.

  But if those things bothered Commandant Mutuu, the impeccably dressed Ramanthian showed no sign of it as he poured hot water through a strainer fi?lled with goldcolored leaves. “There,” the aristocrat said contentedly, as he reached over to remove a cup of amber liquid from under the fi?lter. “Please be so good as to tell me what you think. Is the Oburo Gold superior to the Zecco Red? Or is it the other way around?”

  The bizarre tête-à-tête between Nankool and the effete commandant had been triggered by the human’s obvious knowledge of Ramanthian etiquette. A capacity which, to Mutuu’s mind at least, signaled the presence of someone who, if not an equal, had a profound understanding of Ramanthian culture. And that, combined with the prisoner’s rank, made the human worth interacting with. Having accepted the tumbler of hot liquid, Nankool sucked some of the tea into his mouth and swirled it around. It was a noisy process, and intentionally so, because that signaled enjoyment. The brew tasted like battery acid, or what Nankool imagined battery acid might taste like, and it was all he could do to get the bitter stuff down. And no sooner had the chief executive swallowed than an errant rocket-propelled grenade smashed through a window and lodged itself in the opposite wall. The human gritted his teeth and waited for the weapon to explode. It didn’t.

  “Come now, don’t be reticent,” the Ramanthian insisted. “What do you think?”

  “The Zecco Red was superior,” Nankool said decisively.

  “But just barely.”

  “Exactly!” Mutuu agreed eagerly. “The difference between the two is slight, almost indistinguishable to all but the most discerning of palates, yet suffi?cient to set one above the other. It’s so pleasant to have a visitor who appreciates the fi?ner things in life.”

  “Thank you, Excellency,” Nankool replied humbly. />
  “You’re too kind. Now, having refreshed ourselves, I wonder if we should seek cover? The battle seems to be heating up.”

  “There’s no need to worry about that,” the commandant said dismissively. “The War Mutuu will soon put things right.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that if I were you,” Oliver Batkin said, as he coasted into the throne room. “Not unless your mate has the capacity to return from the dead.”

  It had taken the spy a while to locate Nankool, cut a hole large enough to pass through, and enter the building. Now, as the cyborg hovered at the center of the room, the Ramanthian produced a small weapon. An energy gun from the look of it—which he brought to bear on President Nankool. Or tried to bring to bear as Batkin fi?red a single .50-caliber round. The impact threw the aristocrat backwards and brought a delicately painted panel crashing to the fl?oor along with him.

  “Nice shot,” Nankool said appreciatively, as he came to his feet. “And you are?”

  “Resident Agent Oliver Batkin,” the cyborg replied formally. “Presently attached to the team sent to bring you out.”

  Nankool felt his spirits soar as an assault weapon rattled outside. “That’s wonderful!”

  “It’s good,” Batkin allowed cautiously, “but something short of wonderful.”

  The president frowned. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s a long story, Mr. President,” the spy replied wearily. “But suffi?ce it to say that the naval units that were supposed to pick us up are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were intercepted—or maybe the mission was canceled. We’re screwed either way. Still, the offi?cer in command of the mission knows his stuff, so let’s get you out of here. . . . Please keep your head down. It would be a shame to lose it at this point.”

  The long, silvery space elevator pointed at Maximillian Tragg as the renegade ran for his life. The overcast had begun to burn away by then, revealing white streaks left by high-fl?ying Ramanthian fi?ghters and the blue sky beyond. The aircraft had been on standby thus far but would go into action the moment that the Confederacy Navy appeared. It was just one of many factors Tragg would be forced to take into account as he sought a way off Jericho. That was why the overseer was jogging toward the airstrip, in hopes of fi?nding a way off the planet’s surface, when a shoulder-launched missile struck a Sheen robot. The resulting shock wave was powerful enough to knock Tragg off his feet. Which was just as well, because a second rocket was already on its way, and blew the remaining android to smithereens. Sharp pieces of shrapnel fl?ew in every direction and might have killed the human had he been standing.

  Watkins felt a sense of satisfaction as he dropped the launcher and began to advance on his intended victim. Two of the silvery remotes continued to hover above and behind Tragg, but the Ramanthian-made machines were a lot less formidable than the Sheen robots had been, and one of them went down as the cyborg fi?red the assault weapon he carried. “Stand up, you bastard!” the media specialist ordered, “So I can look into your eyes while I shoot you down!”

  Tragg was confused as he came to his feet. Not only had he never seen his assailant before, but the man wasn’t wearing a uniform, so who the hell was he? That didn’t prevent the renegade from fi?ring one of his pistols at the stranger however.

  Watkins staggered as the slugs slammed into his body armor, laughed out loud, and continued to advance as Tragg tried for a head shot and missed. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” the media specialist demanded, as a shuttle lifted from the airstrip to the north. “I’m the one who burned my signature into your ugly face!”

  Tragg looked at the man and looked again. Marci’s brother? No, that was impossible! Yet who else would say something like that? The renegade lowered the pistol.

  “Watkins?” he inquired unbelievingly. “Is that you?”

  “It sure as hell is,” the cyborg replied grimly. “So get ready to die.”

  “Let me see if I understand,” the overseer said as he began to stall for time. “You survived the fi?ght on Long Jump and followed me here, all because of Marci? You are a fool. But I’m glad you came, because that will give me the opportunity to kill you all over again, and do it right this time!”

  Watkins raised the assault weapon, placed his fi?nger on the trigger, and was just about to fi?re when the remaining monitor came within range. The robot had very little in the way of armament but a single shot from the machine’s stun gun was suffi?cient to paralyze what remained of the cyborg’s nervous system. And without instructions to the contrary—his electromechanical joints buckled and he dropped to his knees. The assault weapon clattered as it hit the ground, and Watkins collapsed facedown in the dirt.

  Meanwhile there was a roar of sound as a Ramanthian aerospace fi?ghter came in low over the camp, released a stick of bombs, and screamed away. The ground shook as a series of overlapping explosions merged into a single uninterrupted CARRRUUUMP. Geysers of dirt shot up into the air, took half a dozen bodies along with them, and fell back down again. It was impossible for Tragg to know which side was winning, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was the passage of time. So when the renegade went to fl?ip the cyborg over, he was in a hurry. Watkins “felt” a boot hook under his body and roll it over. A halo of blue sky surrounded his brother-in-law’s head. The cyborg ordered his body to respond, to do something, but there was no reaction. “So, shithead,” Tragg said contemptuously, as he pointed the pistol downwards.

  “I assume Marci’s dead by now—so say hello to the silly bitch for me.’ ”

  Watkins saw a fl?ash of light, felt a sense of release, and knew he had failed.

  With both of the Mutuus dead, along with most of the camp’s defenders, Team Zebra owned the cratered landscape. But without a way to escape, and under continual attack from above, it was a pyrrhic victory. Which was why Santana, Nankool, and a few others were huddled at the bottom of a bomb crater trying to come up with a plan as the airstrikes continued. “It doesn’t matter why the navy isn’t here,” Santana said pragmatically. “What we need to do is fi?nd a way off this planet. How about the shuttles at the airfi?eld?” he inquired hopefully.

  Technically, Commander Peet Schell outranked the legionnaire, but lacked the skills to fi?ght a ground action and knew it. He was an expert on spaceships, however, and was quick to weigh in as another fi?ghter began its run.

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but we wouldn’t get far. Not without some sort of hyperdrive.”

  “Maybe we could use the shuttles to hijack one of the ships in orbit,” Lieutenant Farnsworth suggested. “They have hyperdrives.”

  “Yes, they do,” the heavily bearded naval offi?cer agreed.

  “But a successful hijack attempt would require the element of surprise. And once we steal a couple of shuttles, the Ramanthians would be expecting us to attack the orbiting ships.”

  “That’s true,” Nankool said, as he spoke for the fi?rst time. “But what about the Imperator?”

  Schell frowned. “She has a hyperdrive,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s true. . . . But what about the space elevator? It’s like a twenty-three-thousand-mile-long anchor chain.”

  “Could we cut it?” Santana wanted to know. “Because the bugs wouldn’t expect something like that.”

  “No,” Schell replied, as a steadily growing sense of excitement began to grip him. “They sure as hell wouldn’t!

  And yes, assuming you have some explosives, we can cut it. Which I would enjoy a great deal.”

  “Can we ride the space elevator up?” Farnsworth wanted to know. “Why steal shuttles if we don’t have to?”

  “No, the elevator was designed to bring a whole lot of tonnage down to the surface in a short period of time,” the naval offi?cer answered. “But that’s okay. My people can fl?y anything. . . . And that includes Ramanthian shuttles. So, let’s go!”

  It was a crazy plan, an insane plan, but anything was better than sitting in the ruins of Camp Enterprise waiting to die. So Santana sent Farnsworth plus a squad of war f
orms off to the airfi?eld. Two pilots were assigned to go with them—and help secure two Ramanthian shuttles. Once they were gone, the legionnaire worked with the surviving noncoms to organize an evacuation. Most of the sickest POWs had been killed when the dispensary was destroyed, but even the so-called healthy prisoners were weak, and some had been wounded. So the most critical patients were put aboard the RAVs, which could handle two people each, while those like Vanderveen were loaded onto makeshift stretchers. The rest were forced to walk. That meant that the entire column was vulnerable to air attack as the POWs and their would-be rescuers emerged from hiding to walk, limp, and in some cases hop toward the airfi?eld.

  It didn’t matter where Santana was. Not at that particular moment, so the offi?cer chose to stay with Vanderveen as a pair of fi?ghters circled the camp and prepared to attack the POWs. So when the diplomat opened her eyes, it was the legionnaire she saw, walking at her side. Santana turned to look down at her, saw that her eyes were open, and took hold of her right hand. That hurt, but Vanderveen didn’t care, as the Ramanthian planes strafed the slowly twisting column.